


Mask of Sanity

by BulletproofTrash



Series: Strangers and Angels 'verse [14]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural
Genre: Arrested Dean Winchester, Arrested Sam Winchester, Arrested Winchesters (Supernatural), Blood and Injury, CM canon that is, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Ghosts, Near Death Experiences, Serial Killers, not new for spn, or cm for that matter, spn is relatively hella tame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:53:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 91,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27678350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BulletproofTrash/pseuds/BulletproofTrash
Summary: Bodies in a small town bring the Criminal Minds team and the Winchester brothers into town, but with different missions. Strangers and Angels 'verse in the SPN fic world.You gotta read the earlier works to know who the OCs are.
Relationships: Bobby Singer & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester & Original Character(s)
Series: Strangers and Angels 'verse [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019070
Comments: 1
Kudos: 43
Collections: General Manager at the Wendy’s in Fairbanks





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a repost from [Mask of Sanity](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5479811/1/Mask-of-Sanity) by user [reading](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/443241/) on fanfiction(dot)net
> 
> Credits to this work and all the works in this series belong to them.

"Luke?"

Luke Sweed suppressed a groan and rolled toward the small hand that was plucking at the sleeve of his t-shirt. "Yeah, buddy?"

Tommy was crouched next to the bed, eyes enormous in his pale face.

"You have another bad dream?" This was the second time in as many nights that the kid had woken him. Luke levered himself up, swinging his legs off the side of the bed at the same time.

Tommy nodded, moving close, and Luke blearily wrapped his arms around the boy. He ran a hand sleepily up and down the narrow back, struggling not to drift off even as he tried to offer what comfort he could.

"I'm sorry," Tommy mumbled into his ear.

Luke cleared his throat softly, wondering if they could avoid waking Jo. "'s OK, sweetheart, it's not your fault," he soothed.

"I should have told you," Tommy whispered, voice breaking as he started to cry.

Surprise halted the motion of Luke's hand on Tommy's back. "Told me what, kiddo?"

"I'm sorry." Tommy started to sob in earnest, trying to crawl completely into Luke's lap. Luke felt Jo's presence behind him, pressing against his back, her arms coming around both of them, adding her own attempt to quiet the shuddering child.

* * *

"Yeah," Luke said heavily into the phone. "My nephew and a couple of his friends found the body a couple of days ago. They were on property they knew they weren't supposed to be on, and it took this long for one of them to crack."

He listened, rubbing his fingers over his forehead. "Not long, I'd say. Two or three days? No, no one from around here as far as I can tell. The condition of the body was, well." It was no wonder Tommy had been having nightmares, guilty conscience aside. Luke was having a hard time getting the image of the mutilated girl out of his own mind. "I'd seen the alerts and once we determined that it wasn't decomposition or animals, I knew we needed to call you folks in."

Luke sighed and closed his eyes as the voice on the other end of the phone continued. "Yes, ma'am, we can do that." He nodded. "We'll see you then, Agent Jareau."

* * *

Aaron Hotchner squinted in the glare of sun as he exited the plane ahead of his team, dropping his sunglasses onto his nose, but not reacting to the temperature even as his people gasped audibly when the heat hit them.

"Sweet Mary, mother of God, it's _hot_!" Prentiss exhaled, apparently trying to catch her breath in the searing heat.

A gust of wind blew over them, but instead of providing any sort of relief, it just swirled the heat up and around, drying the sweat that had already sprung up all over their bodies.

"It's kind of like a convection oven," J.J. commented wryly. "That must be the sheriff," she said, angling her chin toward the man walking across the pitted tarmac toward them.

Hotch nodded his agreement with her statement, already sizing up the man who approached. Tall and solidly built, Luke Sweed walked with the open gait Hotch associated with people who lived in rural areas like this, loose-limbed, but controlled, hand already extended toward the people he was meeting. A younger man kept pace with him a couple of steps back, letting his boss lead.

"Sheriff Sweed," J.J. said, accepting the proffered hand and shaking it.

"Agent Jareau," the man returned easily. "Thanks for coming." He turned to include the man behind him. "This is my deputy, Matt Rodriguez."

Jareau nodded and shook his hand. "This is our team, Supervisory Agent Aaron Hotchner, Agent David Rossi, Agent Derek Morgan, Agent Emily Prentiss, and Dr. Spencer Reid."

Everyone shook hands. Greeting ritual taken care of, the sheriff said, "What do you need from us? I assume you'll want to see the body and the site where it was found. Talk to the boys."

Hotch nodded, stepping forward now that the niceties had been observed. He was aware that the body had been moved, and while that was something he wish hadn't been done, there was no point in ruffling feathers at this point by making an issue of it. "That will get us started. Do you have a place we can set up operations?"

"We were planning on setting you up at our office. We're a small operation ourselves, so it will be a tight squeeze, but you're welcome to anything we have."

Looking toward the edge of the small airstrip, Hotch saw two sheriff's vehicles parked in the lot. "I'd like to have Agent Rossi and Dr. Reid start with the dump site."

If the man's expression tightened slightly at the use of "dump site," he didn't give any further indication that he was bothered by the term.

"Of course," he said. "Matt can take them. I'll take the rest of you into town. The morgue's just a block from the office, if you'd like to see the body."

The sheriff and the deputy exchanged a look, and the younger man nodded. "This way, gentlemen," he said, and Rossi and Reid followed after him.

Sheriff Sweed led the way to the other vehicle, opening the door J.J. reached for before she got a hand on it. One of her eyebrows went up as she glanced at him, but the sheriff seemed unaware of her reaction.

"I'll have Jimmy bring your gear to the office," he said, already talking to Hotch through the open door as Hotch climbed into the front passenger seat. He continued to hold the door as Prentiss followed J.J. into the car and shut it behind them before opening his own door and sliding behind the wheel. He checked the rear view mirror, taking in Morgan and the two women. "Y'all set?" he asked, waiting for their nods before he turned the engine over.

Hotch glanced into the backseat, noting the amused looks his team exchanged at the courtesies.

"What can you tell me about the boys that found the body?" Hotch asked. "Any chance they messed with it?" Hotch paused deliberately. "Any chance they might have had something to do with the girl getting there?" He knew one of the kids was the sheriff's nephew, and he wanted to gauge the man's reaction to the suggestion.

The muscle along the sheriff's jaw jumped, but he answered evenly enough. "No. No chance at all." The look he leveled at Hotch was sharp, calculating. "You know that one of them's my boy." He was checking to make sure that was true.

"Yes," Hotch said coolly. _Interesting_ , he thought. "My boy," not "my nephew."

The sheriff nodded. "They're good boys, all three of them. There's absolutely no chance in hell they had anything to do with that girl's death. None." He paused. "And I'm pretty sure they wouldn't have messed with the body. It scared the crap out of them. All three said they just _ran_ when they realized what they'd found." He shook his head. "Slowed down enough to agree not to tell anyone evidently." Now he sighed. "Idiots," he muttered. "But Tommy's had nightmares ever since and Kyle's folks and Joe's have said the same about their boys."

"We'll need to talk to them."

"I told their parents y'all were on your way as soon as I knew you were coming. You want me to have them come on in?"

At Hotch's nod, the sheriff pulled out his phone. He hit what was obviously one of his speed dial numbers.

"Hey. Yeah, they're here. Yeah. Yeah. OK. Thanks." He hung up and dropped the phone back in his breast pocket. "They'll be there."

* * *

The sheriff had not been lying when he'd said they had a small operation. The sheriff's office seemed to consist of a large open area with a couple of desks and an additional room in the back that J.J. assumed held whatever cells the building might contain.

"We've cleared off Matt's desk for y'all to use," the sheriff said, pointing. "We, uh, don't have a conference room, but you're welcome to use the holding area, if you need privacy for anything."

Derek gave the sheriff a quick look, but the man seemed to be serious.

Sweed shrugged, noticing the glance. "We don't have much call for more space than we've got," he explained.

"That will be fine, sheriff," Hotch said. He looked around. "I'd like to have my people look at the body."

The sheriff nodded again. "Right." He pulled his phone out and made another call almost identical to one he'd made in the car. Evidently, the presence of the FBI was not a secret in town.

The door of the office opened and four adults with a couple of young boys came in. They all blinked uncertainly at the strangers, the children edging closer to their parents as they took in the federal agents.

"Y'all come on in." The sheriff – Luke, he'd said his name was – moved back to the front of the room, ushering the witnesses in and around the invaders. He shook hands with the adults, and touched each boy briefly, smile reassuring parents and children alike. "Pull up some chairs around Matt's desk. We're just waiting on Jo and Tommy, OK?"

The door swung open again and every head in the room turned that way. "Doc," Luke said this time, attention now on the gray-haired man who'd entered. The sheriff looked at Hotch. "This is our M.E., mostly part time. Rob Jones."

Hotch stepped forward, a glance getting Morgan headed his way. He shook the man's hand.

"Robby, this is Agent Hotchner and his team." The sheriff finished the introductions, and J.J. was impressed that he'd remembered everyone's name. There were a lot of people involved in the case at this point.

"Dr. Jones." Hotch didn't waste any time. "I'd like my agent to see the victim and hear your report."

The doctor nodded. "No problem," he said, shaking hands as he exchanged greetings with Derek.

"You walk?" Luke asked. At the doctor's nod of affirmation, the sheriff turned to Derek. "You OK with that? We're short on rides."

Derek shrugged. "That's fine," he agreed.

J.J. couldn't help the slight smile at Derek's slightly disgruntled expression. He wasn't excited about walking in this heat.

"Thanks." J.J. asserted herself into the conversation. "We've got transportation on its way. We just wanted to get on scene as soon as possible." The federal vehicles had left from Midland, as she understood it, but wouldn't be there for a couple of hours.

The sheriff nodded briskly. "That'd be helpful," he agreed.

When the door opened a third time, the doctor left with Morgan, passing a woman and another boy in the doorway. The doctor said something to the woman, rubbing a quick hand over the boy's head as he went by.

The two newcomers warranted the most personal acknowledgment by the sheriff, who kissed the woman on the cheek and curled his arm—reassuring and protective—around the boy, who had stepped close as he eyed the suited men and women in the room.

"Agent Hotchner, this is my wife, Jo. And our boy, Tommy."

Expressionless, Hotch extended his hand. "Mrs. Sweed," he said. He gave the boy the same blank-seeming stare. "Tommy."

Nervously, the boy held his hand out, eyes flicking to the sheriff and then back to Hotch. "S- sir," he faltered as Hotch shook it.

* * *

Hotch had put two of the boys in opposite corners of the room and sent Tommy and Jo into the jail area to be interviewed. He'd wanted all the kids separated and had given J.J. the task of talking to the sheriff's family on her own.

"Find out exactly what the boy's relationship is with the sheriff," he'd said quietly when he'd given her the assignment. "Sweed seems sure the kids aren't involved," he'd added dryly, "but I'd like a second opinion on that possibility."

The sheriff had joined the questioning, sitting on one side of the boy, while his wife sat on the other. He was clearly assuming the role of "parent" as opposed to "law enforcement" for the interview, and J.J. kept that in mind as she proceeded.

"Hi, Tommy," she said softly, smiling at the boy. "I'm J.J., and I just want to ask you some questions about the body you and your friends found. Are you OK with that?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said quietly, gaze flicking to the woman next to him, leaning toward her.

"Ms. Sweed," J.J. said. "I'm going to ask Tommy a few things about how the boys found the body and what they saw." She looked at the sheriff to include him in the instructions before she returned her attention to the boy's... mother? "I'd like Tommy to answer as best he can, so I'm going to ask you and the sheriff to refrain from answering for him, if you would."

The woman was tight-lipped and pale, but she nodded readily enough. "Yes, ma'am," she agreed, one hand rubbing almost compulsively over the boy's back.

"Sugar," the sheriff said gently, hand coming up to still his wife's. "Ease up, a little, OK?" He smiled somewhat ruefully at J.J. and then laid the same hand on top of Tommy's head briefly. "You just answer Agent Jareau's questions as best you can, and it will all be OK," he told the child.

"Yes, sir," the kid whispered.

J.J. smiled at him. "Good. So, why don't you just start at the beginning for me."

* * *

"I've got to agree with the Sheriff on this. I don't think the boys had anything to do with the girl's death," J.J. told Hotch. They were gathered back in the jail area. Reid was leaning against the wall, while Morgan and Prentiss lounged on two of the sparsely made bunks. Hotch stood with his arms crossed in the door of the cell and Rossi was seated in the one chair at the rickety table. It wasn't quite Mayberry. Quite.

"I'm with J.J," Prentiss agreed without hesitation. "Kyle Smith is a sweet kid, and I didn't see any indication that he was anything other than a terrified boy, who was traumatized by what he'd seen and scared of getting in trouble for being where he wasn't supposed to be." She shrugged. "His parents seem to be a little strict, but they clearly love him. And as concerned as they were for their son, they were also upset about the girl. Asked about her parents, wondered who was taking care of making sure her family was notified."

Hotch nodded. Nothing she said was at odds with his own interview of Joe Williams. Good kid, good family. There were no signs that any of these kids were monsters in the making.

"What's the relationship of the sheriff with Tommy McCrae?" Hotch asked more out of curiosity than anything else at this point.

"Tommy's parents were killed in a tornado when he was still a toddler. Jo Sweed is his aunt, his father's sister. She took in Tommy and his brothers after their parents died, married the sheriff a year or so ago."

Hotch nodded. That explained both "nephew" and "my boy." He looked at Derek, "Body?"

Derek sat up from where he'd been slouched on the bunk. "Same as the others. Throat slit, eviscerated with multiple post-mortem stab wounds. Primitive tattoo on her forehead. This one was a 9." Derek leaned over to rest his elbows on his knees. "She shares a lot of the same physical characteristics of the original victim 9. The pictures they took of the body at the crime scene are pretty good, but," he blew out a breath, frustrated. "I'd much rather have had the opportunity to see it laid out." He shrugged his resignation. "She was positioned like the others, too. And there were indications that she'd been held for awhile before she'd been killed." He dropped his head below his shoulders. "I don't envy those kids their dreams for awhile."

There was a moment of agreeing silence.

Emily frowned slightly. "We're missing 4 through 8," she observed.

"And 10," Rossi added.

"So he's recreating his original murders?" J.J. said. "After an 18 year lull?"

"But in different locations."

"Copy cat?" Morgan offered.

"Seems unlikely, though, of course it's possible. There are aspects to the earlier killings that were never released to the public and whoever this is is following the original in every way..."

Almost 20 years ago there had been a series of murders across the south and southwest of women between the ages of 18 and 30, who had been kidnapped and tortured before being killed and mutilated. Each had had a number tattooed on her forehead. There had been ten deaths before the killings had stopped abruptly.

Five months ago a 19-year-old girl in Phoenix had disappeared and been found several days later with her throat cut, her torso ripped open, and the number one tattooed on her forehead. Two months later a 29-year-old in Farmington, New Mexico marked with a three, and a month after that a 31-year-old in Baton Rouge bearing a tattooed two. Each woman had been found in a remote area, miles away from where she'd last been seen.

The new victims, in addition to the tattoos and the manner in which they'd been killed, matched the original victims in physiology – both women marked with ones had been fairly solidly-built, blond, college girls, while both of those numbered with twos had been slender, professional African-American women. The 3s were white again, more brunet than blonde this time, each one married with a single child.

The 9s – the latest victim and her match – were Hispanic, in their early twenties. They didn't have a positive I.D. on the new girl, but if she shared more characteristics with her counter-part, she'd be involved in the health care profession in some way. The first victim had been a dental hygienist.

All of the women were firmly entrenched in their lives, missed quickly by roommates and colleagues and families. The Unsub wasn't picking women on the fringes of society – prostitutes or the destitute – or lonely women who isolated themselves by choice or circumstance. Each of the victims had been described by friends and family as outgoing, smart, and driven. The original profile spoke to an unsub with a deep hatred of women who exhibited independence or self-confidence. It seemed likely that they were looking for a male in his mid-20s to late 40s, who was in a position of weakness or under the authority of a woman or women who made him feel powerless. The new killings didn't appear to warrant any changes in that initial assessment. Except maybe a bump in his possible age.

"It looked like the unsub was headed east from the locations, but he's west again," Rossi said thoughtfully. "The original murders didn't seem to follow any geographical pattern, though – hop scotched all across the south and southwest."

There was an abrupt knock on the door into the main office and then it swung open.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," the sheriff said, oddly breathless and grim looking. "But we've got a report of a missing girl."

* * *

"You see this?" Dean Winchester was sitting at the table, scrolling down through a news article from an online small town newspaper. He glanced up at his brother who was scrolling through a menu displayed on the television. Sam had been calling out show possibilities to Dean, who had purposely agreed only on shows he knew Sam didn't really want to watch. Why, Dean couldn't say; it just seemed like the thing to do. Sam had stopped asking his opinion.

"What?" Sam asked, frowning absently at the screen across from of him. They didn't often stay in places that allowed this kind of viewing choice, and he was having a hard time settling on something.

"This." Dean explained unhelpfully. He squinted at the story.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean."

Dean ignored the bite in his brother's voice. "Body found, mutilated, FBI called in."

Sam still didn't understand. "And?"

" _And_. Luke's quoted as saying that some local boys found the girl and reported it."

"Luke?" That got Sam's attention. He scooted off the bed and reached for the laptop, pulling it out from under Dean's hands. Dean surrendered the machine with a slight rumble of annoyance.

A couple of years earlier, the Winchesters had found themselves stranded, first by exhaustion, then by sickness, at the hotel of a single woman with three boys. Jo McCrae and her nephews had absorbed the Winchester boys into their family so seamlessly that it sometimes still took Dean by surprise. Her marriage to Luke Sweed hadn't changed much of anything, and the Winchesters checked in fairly regularly by phone or email or visits. Or by reading the weekly online edition of the local newspaper. The police blotter—written mostly tongue-in-cheek by either Luke or Matt—was sometimes the funniest thing either Winchester would read in a month.

"You don't figure it would have been Tommy or Jake, do you?" Sam asked, glancing at his brother.

Dean shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stood. But he was biting his lip, eyes scanning the room, looking for his phone.

"Why would they call in the FBI on this?" Sam asked. "There must be something..." His brow was furrowed as he read through what little information was included in the news story. He cocked his head. "Does any of this sound familiar to you?" He stopped reading and opened a new window, started typing. "This sounds familiar to me."

Dean tuned his brother out, picking up the jeans he'd tossed at his duffel when he'd gotten out of the shower. He pulled his phone out of the pocket.

He hit the speed dial number. "Luke's Voicemail," he told Sam. "Hey, it's Dean. I was checking the paper online and saw the thing about the body. Just... wondering how everyone was, I guess." He disconnected, but continued to stare at the phone. "Should I try Jo, do you think?"

"Hey, look at this." Sam turned the laptop toward his brother, and Dean left off his contemplation of his cell, moving forward obediently.

"This isn't the first body found like this." Sam pointed to a story of a woman discovered in Farmington, N.M. "See. Mutilated. Tattoo on her forehead." He changed windows. "And here. Phoenix. Throat cut, post-mortem mutilation. Symbol on her forehead." He looked up at Dean. "In the story Luke just said that a body had been found, but further down the page, the reporter mentions "markings" on the girl's forehead." He leaned forward again and clicked on another window. "And then there's this." He sat back to let Dean read.

"You remember that true crime phase I went through when I was, like, 11?"

Dean snorted. "How could I forget? Every time Dad found a monster to go after, you were convinced it was a serial killer." He grinned. "And I lost track of how many times I had to kick you out of my bed in the mornings cuz you'd scared yourself so bad."

Sam flushed. "I was _eleven_."

"You were an idiot," Dean returned. "You were so determined to be 'normal,' you decided that serial killers were a better option to explain things than anything supernatural. Like _that_ is normal."

Sam huffed out an exasperated breath, but then laughed ruefully. "Yeah. You're probably right." Dean looked at him in surprise and Sam just shrugged. "I was _eleven_ ," he repeated. "Anyway. _That_ ," he gestured to the computer and the Wikipedia entry that was open, "was one of the stories that really fascinated me. I mean, he'd killed all these women, and then he just _stopped_."

Dean nodded. "You think maybe he's started up again?" he asked. "That he's somewhere close to the Sweeds?" Dean felt a shiver of fear go up his spine, and without thinking about it, he started to pack. It wasn't their kind of gig, but...

"Maybe," Sam said. He stood, responding instinctually to Dean's controlled agitation, shutting down the computer and reaching for his own bag. "I remember reading that they're not always sure why these kinds of killers stop, because they so rarely do if they aren't caught. Sometimes they figure these guys get injured so badly they can't continue or they end up in jail and don't have the opportunity to keep on." He paused. "Sometimes they die."

Dean stopped and turned to his brother, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "A serial killer ghost?"

"Maybe," Sam shrugged.

_ Huh _ . Dean nodded. Either way, they were going.


	2. Chapter 2

"Her name is Amelia Santos. She just graduated from the local high school." Sweed was flipping hurriedly through a high school annual and then stopped, turned back a couple of pages. "There." He set the book on the small table in the cell and pointed. "That was last year. She went for a run this morning, and her parents said she was supposed to watch her little brothers afterward so her step-mother could go to a meeting. She never got home."

The deputy, Matt, added, "It's not like her to be irresponsible. Her parents have been calling her friends and when no one had seen her or talked to her, they came here." He glanced uneasily at the door into the main office.

She was a pretty, dark-haired girl, down on one knee in front of a pyramid of other smiling teenagers, hands fisted on her hips, long hair pulled back in a ponytail, huge grin on her face. Cheerleader. Hotch rubbed a hand over his mouth.

"Number 8," said Reid.

Sweed's head came up to stare at the youngest member of the team. "What?" he asked.

Reid didn't seem to have heard him. "Lyla Simmons." He looked more closely at the picture. "The physiology's different, though. Lyla was a red-head, freckled, maybe a little skinnier."

"Both cheerleaders, though" Morgan said. "Both popular, I'm guessing. Self-assured."

Sweed's gaze went to whoever was talking, occasionally looking to Hotch or Rossi as the younger members of the team spoke.

"If he follows his previous pattern, we may have a few days to find her."

"What?" Matt said. He looked in confusion from Emily to his boss and back to Emily. "I don't... What are you talking about?"

Hotch, jaw tight, regarded the two local men steadily. "We believe we have a killer who is recreating a series of murders from several years ago. Your body seems to be the fourth victim. Your missing girl matches some of the characteristics of a possible fifth victim, but who was the eighth victim initially."

The horror of what Hotch was saying drained all the color from both men's face.

"You think Amelia's been taken by the same person that... did ... what he did to the girl the boys found," Sweed whispered.

Hotch nodded. "I'm afraid so."

The sheriff swallowed audibly. "I guess I suspected that was a possibility when the Santoses came in, but..." he ran a slightly unsteady hand over his eyes. "I just didn't want..." He looked at Emily. "You said we may have a few days. Do you think we can still find her?"

Emily hesitated before she said, "The unsub seems to keep the women for awhile before he kills them. But they've also all been found hundreds of miles from where they were taken. She may already be out of the area."

"We'll talk to her parents and put out an Amber Alert," Hotch said. "We'll do everything we can to get her back."

* * *

When the Winchesters pulled off the road and onto the drive that led past the Sweeds' motel and around back to their house, Sam groaned.

"Of course the Feds are staying here," he said sarcastically. The two black Suburbans with their darkened windows might just as well have had "We're the FBI, and we're here to help!" emblazoned along their sides.

Dean gave the vehicles a surprisingly disinterested squint and shrugged, swinging the car past the building. "Where else would they stay?" he asked. "It's not like there's any other place to stay around here for 20 miles in any direction."

"Yeah," Sam grumbled. "But still." He slouched unhappily further into the seat.

"Besides, dude, we're officially dead," Dean said breezily. "They'll never even notice us."

Sam raised an incredulous eyebrow at his brother. "Are you serious? You were on the FBI's Most Wanted li- ..."

Dean leaned over and turned the radio up for the last 100 feet to the Sweeds' house, ignoring his brother ostentatiously.

With an exasperated sigh, Sam shut his mouth and looked out toward the house. If Dean was in one of those moods, there was no point trying to make a point. Sam wouldn't get anywhere. He just hoped they could avoid the FBI until he'd managed to convince his brother that some form of caution would be warranted around the Feds.

No one answered their knock, so they let themselves in, calling out as they made their way back to the room that had been designated theirs whenever they needed it.

Dean tossed his bag onto the bed. "Maybe they're at the diner," he suggested, dropping his keys on the dresser and starting toward the door.

"I'll go," Sam said quickly.

"Dude." Dean gave him an annoyed look.

"Come on, man, don't be an idiot."

Dean's raised eyebrows and the set of his jaw told Sam that probably hadn't been the best approach.

"I just mean," Sam tried to soften his tone, "that we shouldn't take a chance we don't have to. I'll see if Jo or the boys are over there. If they are, we'll head back here; if they're not, I've saved you a trip." Sam paused. "Actually. Either way I've saved you a trip. See? That's the kind of brother I am."

Dean stared at him stonily.

"Dean."

"Fine," Dean snapped. "But I'm not going to spend all our time here tiptoeing around the Feds, Sam."

"I know," Sam acknowledged. He stopped at the door on his way out. "I'll bring you some pie," he offered in consolation

"You better," Dean gruffed. "Bitch."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam said, rolling his eyes.

* * *

"Sam?"

Sam headed toward the voice calling out to him.

"What are you doing here?" Jake set the plates down on the table he was serving, pretty much ignoring the customers, who didn't seem to mind, sliding their entrees around, sorting out who got what.

"You didn't know we were coming?" Sam and Jake exchanged quick hugs, and Sam nodded at a couple of the men at the table who raised hands in greeting. "Dean called Luke."

"Y'all all set?" Jake asked his table vaguely, already moving away with Sam as the group of men waved him off. "Luke's been pretty... This thing ..." He seemed to be as distracted with Sam as he'd been with the diners. He suddenly frowned, turning to face Sam more completely. "Is that why y'all are here?"

Sam didn't respond directly, reaching an arm around the boy and drawing him to the side, eyes on a cluster of sharply dressed people in a back booth. One of them—surprisingly young-looking for what Sam suspected was an FBI agent—met his eyes briefly before looking away. "Are those the Feds?" he asked softly.

Blinking, Jake looked in the direction Sam indicated. "Yeah. Some of them, I think."

Sam sighed. _Crap._ "OK. Well. Can I get Dean some pie? It was the only way I could keep him from coming over here and risk being seen by the FBI."

"It's 9 o'clock in the morning," Jake said disapprovingly. Sounding remarkably like his aunt. Though Sam didn't point that out.

"And?" he asked with a grin.

"It's leftover from yesterday," Jake told him, pushing through the swinging door into the kitchen. Sam followed after him, smiling a hello at Bart, the cook.

"That'll be OK," Sam said. The smell of freshly baked biscuits and bacon frying made his stomach rumble noisily, and Bart laughed.

"You want me to fix you a plate, Sam?" he asked.

Sam's belly growled again at the thought, but he shook his head. "Dean'll kill me if I'm not back in, like, five more minutes. I'll get something at the house. Thanks, though."

Bart nodded. "Order up, Jakester," he said.

Jake thrust half a pie at Sam. "See you later," the kid said, gathering up plates.

"Yeah." Sam took his brother's pie. "Hey, where's your mom?" he asked abruptly, having been distracted from the original mission.

"Housekeeping," Jake told him, backing out the door into the dining area.

"Thanks." Sam got a better handle on the pie plate and headed out the side door that led to motel and more specifically the housekeeping closet. He jerked a nod at Bart. "See you around."

The man waved a spatula at him, already focused on the next order.

Jo wasn't in the housekeeping closet, but Sam saw the cart parked in front of one of the rooms. He knocked on the partially open door. "Jo?"

She had just finished stripping the beds, a pile of linens on the floor, shaking out a clean sheet over a bare mattress. The polite "guest" smile slipped when she saw Sam, replaced by a much more genuine one. "Sam!"

"Hey," he said, stepping into the room and putting the pie aside just in time to avoid having it crushed against his stomach when Jo hugged him.

"What in the world are you doing here?" she asked. "Where's your brother? Is everything OK?"

Sam smiled at her in reassurance. "We're fine. Dean's up at the house – for now, at least." He paused. "We saw the thing about the body in the paper, and... "

Jo's smile faltered as he looked at her questioningly, knowing what he was asking. "Tommy found her," she said, eyes filling and Sam closed his own.

"We... I don't know. We were afraid maybe he had. Or Jake. We just... " He cleared his throat. "We just felt like we should come," he said.

She smiled and put a hand against his cheek. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said simply. "Tommy will be so glad to see y'all."

"How is he?"

Jo shook her head. "He's... coping, I guess."

"Where is he?" Sam asked, curious. The kid hadn't been up at the house and didn't seem to be helping either his brother or his aunt.

"Michael's working at church camp this week. He got in late last night and took Tommy with him for the day." She smiled. "He loves the blob," she said by way of explanation.

Sam laughed in spite of himself. "Who wouldn't?" he asked.

Neither said anything for a minute.

Sam bit his lip, even as he reached for the dish he'd set on the dresser. "I'd help you finish this up, but I'm afraid if I don't get back Dean will come looking for me. I promised him pie, if he'd stay put."

Jo's forehead crinkled uncertainly.

Sam tilted his head in the direction of the diner. "FBI," he reminded her.

Her expression went from confused to concerned. "Oh, honey, I..."

"Jo, don't worry. Dean's convinced that since we're officially dead, it won't be a problem."

She looked doubtfully at him.

"Yeah. I'm not sure I agree with him, either." He shrugged. "We'll figure it out, OK? Really." On impulse, he bent down and kissed her cheek. "Don't worry."

She blinked, startled, then smiled up at him, eyes wet again. "Impossible," she said. She squeezed his arm. "Go take that pie to your brother. As soon as I finish here, I'll be up at the house."

"'K," Sam said.

"And don't let him eat all of that," she ordered, turning back to the task of making the beds.

Sam snorted. "Right," he drawled.

Jo's laughter followed him out the door.

* * *

Reid was staring at the door into the kitchen of the diner.

"Spence?" J.J. asked, reaching across the table to jostle his arm.

Reid's attention snapped back to the people seated at the table with him. "Yeah?"

"What's up with you, kid?" Derek asked, frowning. "We boring you?"

Reid shook his head. "No. Sorry. I just..." He glanced back at the gently swinging door, then shook his head again as it drifted to a stop. "Sorry."

He'd been fully engaged in the conversation at the table, breakfast plates pushed aside as the morning meal had morphed into business—the team batting ideas back and forth, taking a fresh look at the profile they were working on. The woman who ran the hotel and diner had barely blinked at Hotch's request that they be seated in the back and given a little privacy. She'd simply nodded, leading them to a large booth in the far corner, serving them quietly and unobtrusively, setting down plates full of food and refilling coffee without comment. She hadn't seated anyone close to them, and if they'd elicited a certain number of covert stares from the patrons clustered close to the entrance, no one had approached them.

At about the time Hotch and Rossi had headed back to the sheriff's office, a teen-aged boy had entered the restaurant. Reid had noticed the switch-off between the woman and the boy, a quiet conversation behind the diner counter, the kid's eyes drifting toward them as the woman spoke. When the boy had nodded his understanding, the woman had patted him on the arm and left.

That had been almost an hour ago, and Reid couldn't help but notice that the boy's interpretation of what Reid assumed had been instructions to give the FBI their privacy had manifested itself as "Ignore them completely," because the remaining plates had not been cleared and everyone's coffee mugs were empty. Reid had just been looking around for their neglectful server and opening his mouth to ask if anyone else wanted a refill when he'd heard the kid say, almost startled sounding, "Sam?"

The tall young man who had responded to the question was familiar to Reid, but he was not anyone Reid had expected to see outside of pictures in a closed case file.

Because Sam Winchester was supposed to be dead.

Fortunately, no one at the table had noticed Reid's mouth drop open, and he'd snapped his jaw shut quickly, trying his best to school his features into some semblance of normal. Distractedly, he'd managed to nod at a question Morgan asked, even as his eyes slid back to the boy and Sam Winchester. They'd been hugging and Reid had noticed several people around the diner smile at Sam, a couple waving greetings that Sam had returned easily. He was known here.

When Sam had drawn the kid away, he'd caught Reid by surprise, glancing over at the FBI's table while he was talking to the boy. Reid had tried to look away casually, hoping that he hadn't alerted Winchester to the fact that he'd been recognized. When Sam didn't bolt—or take hostages—Reid had assumed he'd been successful.

Out of the corner of his eye, Reid had followed their progress toward the kitchen door. The two seemed comfortable together, Sam saying something that made the boy roll his eyes and shake his head, Sam grinning at the kid's reaction. They'd disappeared into the back, and Reid had been frowning thoughtfully— _Where was Dean? Really dead? Hiding? Had the brothers split up?_ —when J.J.'d nudged him.

Reid shook himself free of questions about the reports-of-their-deaths-may-have-been-exaggerated Winchester brothers and re-engaged with the team. There'd been no sign of Amelia Santos, but the team was leaving the logistics of that search primarily to the locals and state police, trying instead to stay focused on the unsub and completing the new profile before more women went missing.

Morgan looked around, catching the kid's eye as the boy swung back into the dining room carrying plates, but without Sam. Derek made the universal motion for "check, please," and the kid nodded.

The boy approached the table warily, handing over the bill, eyes skirting toward the kitchen door. "Everything OK?" he asked.

"Yeah, fine," Derek said, handing over the appropriate credit card.

"Could I get some coffee to go?" Emily asked with a smile.

When the boy nodded, the rest of them jumped on the idea, and they all climbed into the Suburban balancing coffee cups and paperwork.

J.J. wrinkled her nose as they got settled. "Is it ever too hot for coffee in the morning?" she asked.

With a slight smile, Spencer slouched in the passenger seat, cradling his coffee, Emily next to him, putting the car into drive and drinking her own coffee. The answer, for the moment at least, seemed to be "no."

None of them had gotten much sleep the night before. It had been late—after midnight—when they'd reached the motel, only to discover that they were going to have to share rooms because of space issues. It wasn't like it was the first time that had happened, but every time it was frustrating and a little unsettling to Reid. Morgan wasn't a bad roommate for a few days, but having someone else in the room disturbed Reid's usual routine when he wasn't at home, and it threw him.

It was quiet in the car and Reid closed his eyes, leaning his head against the window. He angled the AC so that it wasn't blowing directly in his face, but would still hit him in the chest. It was barely 9:30 in the morning, and it was already felt too hot. It wasn't the suffocatingly humid heat of Virginia and D.C., but the dryness and intensity of the heat gave it a misery of its own.

Usually Reid used this sort of down time to process whatever case they were working on, but today his mind kept skipping to the Winchesters, wondering how exactly Sam, at least, was still alive.

Reid first read about the Winchesters when Dean showed up on the Most Wanted List. Morgan teased him about his reading habits, but Reid loved the job they did and often couldn't keep himself from poking around in files that didn't belong to their team.

An only child raised by a mentally ill mother, Reid had been fascinated by the family dynamic that had produced Dean Winchester, and by extension, his little brother Sam. Raised without their own mother by a father who had largely isolated his sons and who may have suffered a mental break himself after the death of his wife, Dean and Sam Winchester had grown up on the fringes of society, trained to survive by whatever means necessary—whether by physical strength, fraud, or hustling pool.

By all appearances Dean had embraced the life he'd been raised to without much if any resistance—high school dropout (though with a GED), a string of arrests for petty crimes, no known associates outside his family, and no permanent address.

Sam on the other hand....

Reid had read Sam's file with particular interest given its stark contrast to his brother's. Because here was a guy who had seemed to be emphatically rejecting the life he'd had so far—college at a top school, no arrests (though it was possible anything he'd done as a juvenile had been expunged), friends who described him as "scary smart," kind, and quiet, and the potential for a full ride to law school.

All that had changed one chilly November night in Palo Alto when Sam's girlfriend and their apartment had gone up in flames, Sam pulled to safety by an older brother some friends hadn't known existed and others said Sam had barely mentioned.

Both Winchesters had disappeared a week later.

Reid knew the conclusions others had come to about the brothers. He'd talked to the agent who had officially been on the trail of the two men many considered to be highly dangerous sociopaths. Henriksen had been emphatic about their guilt in the series of deaths their presences had been linked to.

Reid hadn't been as sure. There had been discrepancies in witness statements as well as in the timing of some of the crimes they'd been associated with. The trouble had been that so many of the witnesses who claimed that the Winchesters were innocent of wrongdoing were vague in their descriptions of what actually _had_ happened. Even a woman who had supposedly been brutally attacked by Dean Winchester had tried to downplay his guilt after he'd been killed. And then when he'd popped up alive again...

It just hadn't added up to Reid. But when he'd tried to raise some of the inconsistencies with Henriksen, the man had almost ripped his head off. Just a few weeks later the Winchesters were dead and an entire police staff with Henriksen and several other FBI agents killed along with them and the point had been moot.

But here was Sam Winchester, apparently alive and well. And though there was no sign of Dean, Reid suspected that if Sam was still breathing, his brother probably was, too. Which raised the question of when (if?) to tell the rest of the team that a former member of the "most wanted" club might be in town – and wasn't actually dead.

He sighed, sitting up and rotating his head around on his neck, trying to work out the stiffness.

"You OK, Reid?" Emily asked, sending him a sympathetic smile.

"Yeah," he answered. "Just tired."

She mmmm'd in agreement.

Reid crossed his arms over his chest and slumped a little further down into his seat. He didn't know _for sure_ that Dean Winchester was in town. And though Sam was a fugitive, too, he wasn't at the same level his brother had been. Reid bit his lip. He'd wait.


	3. Chapter 3

When Sam got back to the house, he found Dean in the kitchen rummaging through the fridge. He'd started coffee and spoke to his brother without turning around.

"This looks like pancake batter," he said as he emerged from the interior of the icebox. He lifted the saran wrap that covered the bowl and sniffed, grinning when his suspicions were confirmed. "Want some?"

"Yeah, thanks," Sam said, setting the pie on the table. He took Dean's place at the fridge. "Is there bacon?" Opening one of the drawers, Sam sighed in satisfaction, pulling out the meat and reaching for a skillet.

He filled Dean on his conversation with Jo while they cooked.

By the time Jo and Jake joined them, the Winchesters had finished breakfast and were in the process of splitting the pie. Sam was using an elbow to keep Dean from shifting the position of the knife as he tried to physically force Sam to cut him a bigger piece.

"It's my pie," Dean insisted, reaching again for the cutting utensil.

"Is not," Sam bit out, shoving hard against his brother.

"Hey, ow. Is, too." Dean made an aborted grab for the knife, and Sam had just adjusted his grip to raise it threateningly when Jo came into the room.

"No bloodshed please," she requested.

While Dean was distracted by greeting Jo and Jake, Sam made the cut quickly and efficiently, then sighed in resignation when Jake reached for a piece. Sam moved the grabbing hand out of the way and cut each of the large slabs of pie in half.

Dean grumbled at the reduction in his portion, but handed Jo his plate before heading to the cabinets to get two more.

When they were all settled around the table, Dean ventured, "Have there been any changes since yesterday? We saw that the Feds are here."

Jake put his fork down abruptly. "I need to..." he looked at his aunt. "I'm going to go call."

"OK, baby," she said, watching him worriedly. "Let me know?"

"Yeah," he said, not looking at Dean or Sam.

"What...?" Dean asked, concerned.

"A girl from the high school went missing yesterday morning. Amelia Santos?" She looked to see if either of the Winchesters recognized the name, but they were both shaking their heads. "She's a year ahead of Jake, just graduated." Jo's voice broke. "They haven't said it officially, but they think whoever killed that poor girl the boys found probably has her. They're looking, but..."

Dean reached out, cupping his palm around the elbow she had rested on the kitchen table. He moved his thumb gently over the skin of her bicep.

Jo cleared her throat. "Tommy doesn't know yet, but he knows who she is—one of her little brothers is in his grade. I just... I'm afraid after what he saw... and now with Amelia maybe taken by the same person."

Sam felt his heart constrict at the thought of the images Tommy already had in his head and coupling that with knowing a new victim. He looked at Dean, saw the same recognition in his brother's eyes.

"He's a strong kid," Dean told her softly. "It'll be tough on him, but he'll be OK, Jo. He will."

She wiped at her eyes.

Sam knew it was probably false hope, but he said it anyway. "And maybe it isn't even the same thing. She might be fine. Maybe..." He trailed off.

When Jake came back into the room, Jo rose. "Any news?"

He shook his head and let her hug him briefly. "No." He sighed. "Can I go over to Daisy's? Everyone's there and... she's pretty upset; Casey and 'melia are pretty good friends."

"Of course you can," she said. "Are you taking the truck?" At his nod, she sat back down. "OK, then. Be careful. And call me if you need anything? Jakey?"

He nodded again, cutting quick glances at the Winchesters. "See y'all later." And he was gone.

Jo sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. "Casey's Daisy's older sister," she reminded them, getting up again with her plate and stacking Jake's and the Winchesters' as she went to the sink.

"Has Luke said anything about what they're thinking?" Dean asked.

Jo shook her head, leaning back against the counter. "He hasn't been home since yesterday. We've talked on the phone a couple of times, but..." She started putting dishes in the dishwasher.

Sam considered telling her to stop, that they would get them. But he knew from experience that Jo needed something to keep her occupied when she was distressed, so he kept his mouth shut. He watched the same thoughts flicker across his brother's face.

"You think he might be home for lunch?" Dean asked. "We...uh...," he trailed away, looking to Sam with a slight grimace.

Jo turned from her task to look at them questioningly.

Sam shrugged. "The description in paper was... familiar, I guess," he said. "I looked up some things, and we thought it might be... our kind of thing."

Jo paled. "A demon?" she breathed.

"No, no," Dean jumped in.

It made sense that she'd immediately go to _demon_ – that had been what had gone after Luke and Tommy, what they'd told her had been responsible for their own tragedies.

"A ghost, maybe," Dean tried to reassure her.

And what did that say, Sam thought, that since the Winchesters had entered her life, the idea of a killer ghost was the better of the supernatural explanations.

"We don't know," Dean was continuing, "but it seems like there was a serial killer almost 20 years ago that killed girls this way and was never caught. It's possible that he's killing again. But we thought, if he quit because he was dead, it might be his spirit."

"Nothing's been said about a serial killer," she said uncertainly.

"They may not want to freak anyone out," Sam said gently. "A lot of times information gets withheld from the public."

She nodded, biting her lip. "I'll call Luke and let him know you're here."

* * *

"Talk to me." Derek flipped his phone open and tucked it against his shoulder as he continued to scan the maps in front of him. They'd hung several on the wall in their holding cell "conference room" and marked on the local one where the body – Kathleen Gonzalez – had been found and traced a line along the route that Amelia Santos liked to run. A larger map had a pin where Kathleen had gone missing, Dallas, as well as the locations where the other victims – past and present – had been taken and found. If the unsub followed his pattern Amelia Santos wouldn't be found anywhere around here.

"What's your pleasure, handsome?" came the husky, amused tone of Garcia.

"Let's start with tattoos," Derek said dryly, smiling.

"Mine or yours?" she asked pertly.

"The unsub's." He pulled the phone away from his ear and gestured to the rest of the team. "I'm putting you on speaker."

"Spoil sport," she huffed. "OK. I pulled the files and ran a comparison between the script of the original tats and the new ones. There's a 97% chance that they were done by the same person. That 3% difference could be explained by the aging of the unsub and degeneration in the flexibility of the hand doing the work."

Rossi flexed his fingers experimentally and made a slight grimace of empathy. "That high a percentage seems to speak against a copycat of some kind," he said thoughtfully. "What about the ink? Any match there?"

"Kind of," Garcia said. "It's still blue, and it's still from a ballpoint pen of some sort, but the composition of the ink is different. The ink from before was identified as coming from a blue Bic pen. We're checking to see if the recipe for the ink has changed over the last 20 years..."

There was some clicking on the keyboard.

"In terms of the instrument used to make the cut, it appears to be some sort of makeshift needle. The shape of the punctures ..."

"Primitive tattoos like the ones on the victims are often made with paper clips or even staples," Reid interrupted her. "And by 'primitive' I don't mean tattoos made by indigenous people. I mean tattoos that aren't done by professionals. Like prison tattoos." He paused to take a breath. "Although many tattoo artists in prison are able to reach a pretty amazing level of proficiency. Some are even able to rig up machines like those used in tattoo parlors. They ..."

Hotch raised a finger at Reid, who subsided immediately. "Garcia?"

"The shape of the punctures," she repeated, "seems to suggest a paper clip that's been sharpened to a point." The smile in her voice carried clearly over the phone. "Score another one for Dr. Reid."

Reid's mouth quirked up self-consciously at one corner.

"Is there any chance it's some sort of super _special_ paperclip that's only sold in a couple of locations around the country?" Emily asked hopefully.

"Not so much," Garcia answered.

"It had to be asked," Prentiss told Morgan solemnly when he grinned at her.

"OK," said Hotch, continuing as if the question _hadn't_ been asked. "It's looking more and more like we can rule out a copycat. Which leaves us with the original profile."

Derek rustled through the papers in front of him before pulling out one with his notes on it. "Which doesn't leave us with much," he said curtly. "There doesn't seem to be any pattern to the original killings and certainly nothing with the current ones. We can't get ahead of this guy if we can't figure out what's drawing him to particular places and women."

"Let's look at the victims," Rossi said, moving toward the dry erase board the sheriff's staff had managed to scrounge up and wrestle into the cell. "Up until Amelia Santos, the recent women had matched up exactly with the earlier victims—physiology, stage of life, even career." He stared at the board before turning toward the table to speak to Garcia.

"Garcia, can you get us more detailed dossiers on all the victims? We've got the basics, but the more we know, the better chance we might have of making some connections."

"You got it," came the reply and the line went dead.

"And this is the first time he's taken someone from the same place he dumped an earlier victim." Rossi was back at the board.

Emily frowned. "You think he's still around?"

"It doesn't make sense that he would be, but we've definitely got a change in his m.o. What would account for that?"

"Transportation issues?" Reid suggested.

"Maybe. But he's been remarkably careful up to this point. There's been a degree of control in his previous kills that makes it unlikely he wouldn't be able keep himself from acting again before it was prudent." Rossi shrugged. "Still. It's worth checking with local mechanics to see what they know." He frowned when his phone rang, putting it to his ear and stepping away from the group.

"I'm on it," Morgan said. He snatched up his phone from the table and stuck it in his pocket. "I'll check with the sheriff for a list of garages in the area."

The door to the holding area opened and the man himself gestured J.J. in ahead of him.

"J.J., how's Henry?" Emily asked in concern. J.J. had gotten a call from Will early in the morning saying that their son had a fever.

J.J. smiled slightly, but the worry was etched on her face. "He still has a temperature. I think... Hotch, I ..."

"Go home, J.J.," Hotch said immediately. "We can handle things here."

"Thanks," she said, sagging in relief, though she knew as well as anyone that Hotch wouldn't have kept her from being with her son. "I'll..." she turned immediately back toward the door that was still being held for her, then pivoted back toward the team. "I..."

"Go," Hotch said again gently. "Keep us posted, though."

"I will."

"J.J., hold up." Rossi was closing his phone with a snap. "I'll come with you." He met Hotch's eyes grimly. "We've got a missing boy in Atlantic City they think has been taken by a pedophile who just escaped from prison." He gestured in frustration toward the board. "You got this, right? They need someone to take lead with the New Jersey State Police."

Hotch ground his teeth, frustrated as well. But they were short on staff across the board. "Yeah," he sighed. "We got it. Go."

As J.J. and Rossi left, the sheriff came into the room. He studied the board thoughtfully, eyes moving methodically over the maps and photos.

"Sheriff?" Derek stepped up to the man. "I'd like to get a list of the garages around town. We want to see if there's anyone around who's had car trouble, maybe can't get out of the area..."

The sheriff's attention hadn't left the evidence board, but he nodded as Morgan was speaking. "He's never taken anyone from the same place he's left a body before," he said softly.

The entire team blinked.

"No," Hotch said. "He hasn't."

"That makes it more likely he's still around. That Amelia may still be in the area," Sweed went on.

"Maybe," Hotch agreed cautiously. "We need to investigate the possibility."

"Yeah," the sheriff said. He cleared his throat and finally faced Morgan. "Matt can help you with that," he said. "He's out front."

"Thanks."

The sheriff continued to stand, apparently lost in thought as his attention went back to the board. Finally he said, "If he's sticking around here, do you think he'll take more women?"

"We don't know," Emily admitted, glancing at Hotch, who didn't try to silence her. "If he does, it will mean he's completely changed his pattern."

The sheriff nodded. "You said that Amelia matches some of the characteristics of the other woman, but not all. Can I see the descriptions of the other victims?" He looked at Emily, then around the room. "Maybe I can see some similarities with women in town he might..."

"It's extremely unlikely that you'll be able to anticipate what this unsub will consider important if he's moved off-pattern," Reid said. "The profile..."

"No," Hotch interrupted with a frown. "That might be a good idea. Reid, you work with the sheriff. Let him see all the victims and how they've corresponded. Maybe a fresh set of eyes by someone who knows some of the population here will help us get a better handle on what this guy is thinking."

Sweed nodded. "Let me just tell Matt he's point on the search for Amelia," he said.

When he'd left, Prentiss and Reid looked at Hotch questioningly.

"Hotch, the odds of the sheriff being able to add anything...," Reid started.

"No, I know. I know," Hotch said, continuing to frown and turning his scowl toward the evidence board. "But there's something about this that feels off to me. I can't..." He trailed off with a slight shake of his head.

"The sheriff?" Emily asked, eyebrows going up into her hairline.

He shook his head again. "No. Not that. Just. Something." He continued to stare at the board like it held the answer to his uncertainty.

Prentiss and Reid exchanged glances. An unsettled Hotch was an unsettling Hotch. But before they could ask more questions the sheriff re-entered the cell and they switched gears to reexamining the victims.

* * *

Luke was pretty sure he wasn't helping at all. He and the kid, Reid, had gone over the descriptions of the victims in detail and of the remaining original women, Luke had done what he could to match women and girls in the community who _might_ be similar enough to attract the attention of this particular monster.

He'd thought this would be a tangible way he could contribute to the investigation, but the more he talked with the agents and heard them talk among themselves, the less sure he was that he had anything to add. At all.

When his phone rang it was almost a relief. "Yeah?" he said getting up and moving away from the cluster of agents.

"How are things going?" Jo.

He shrugged, not able to answer. But she read his silence without trouble. "I'm sorry, honey."

He shrugged again, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He knew he should actually say something, but he was too tired to formulate any sort of conversation. And they'd had more than one of these sorts of phone calls over the years.

"Any chance you'll be home for lunch?" she asked gently.

He cleared his throat with a sigh, trying to decide.

"Because Dean and Sam are here."

_ What? _

"What?" That information seemed to have jumpstarted his tongue.

"They got here a little while ago. Read about that poor girl online." She paused to give him a chance to speak again and when he didn't, she added hesitantly, "They're wondering if it might be their sort of thing?"

_ What? _

"What?" Yeah. He was going to need to say something other than that shortly, but at the moment, that seemed to be all he could offer.

"Honey," she said chidingly, though he could hear the underlying amusement as well.

"Yeah," he said, cutting a glance at the FBI agents a few feet away. _You have got to be kidding me_. "Yeah. I'll try to be there." If only to strangle the Winchester brothers for showing up on their doorsteps when there were half-a-dozen Feds in town. "Give me an hour, OK?"

"OK," she said. "Don't be mad, alright? They want to help. They think they can."

"Yeah," he said tightly and hung up.

"Everything OK?" asked Prentiss.

"Yeah."

_ Peachy. _

* * *

When the front door slammed, Sam and Dean flinched. They stood as Luke strode into the room.

"Hey," Dean said somewhat sheepishly in the face of Luke's obvious agitation.

"Hey," the man returned curtly. He hugged them both briefly.

When Dean opened his mouth to start in on their explanation, Luke pointed a finger at him in a move that reminded Dean sharply of his father. "I'm going to need a shower and some food and coffee before we do this," he said grimly.

Both Winchesters nodded their agreement quickly. "Fair enough," Sam said, hands slightly raised.

When Luke returned, he was decidedly less rumpled and exhausted looking. And correspondingly less grumpy.

They still let him get one cup of coffee and a sandwich down before they started.

"So." Luke wiped his mouth and sat back from the table. "Your kind of thing?"

"We don't know," Dean admitted. "But it seemed like it might be, given the length of time between murders and the possibility that the killer only quit originally because he was dead."

"You know that the FBI is here," Luke said.

The Winchesters looked at each other.

"Yeah." Dean rolled his eyes slightly, a little annoyed that no one seemed to have any confidence in his ability to avoid detection by a bunch of suits. Never mind the fact that as far as the feds were concerned they didn't _exist_ anymore, so there should be no reason...

Dean's reaction didn't sit well with Luke; the sheriff's eyes narrowed at the younger man.

"And you know that if they figure that out, it won't just be your asses on the line, but all of ours, right?"

The smirk fell off Dean's face. He hadn't really...

"This isn't a game, Dean," Luke said harshly. "I know that you're officially dead, both of you, and that that may knock you off their radar. And I know you wouldn't intentionally put us in danger. But, kiddo? Just your being here puts us in danger." His face softened somewhat, but his expression remained dead serious. "Don't get me wrong, either of you," his eyes moved to include Sam in what he was about to say. "You are _always_ welcome here. Always." He shook his head, the exhaustion plain again in the whole set of his body. "But, Dean, you can't take the feds' presence here lightly, do you understand me?"

"I don't," Dean said. "I won't. Luke..."

But Luke seemed satisfied with Dean's reassurance, and he waved away any need for further protestations. With a sigh he leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table.

"Tell me what you're thinking."


	4. Chapter 4

Dean had to hand it to Luke. Even when he was pissed—and scared—he was willing to listen. After he'd finished bawling them out.

Being dressed down by the older man had smarted. Because he'd been right. And Dean wasn't going to lie about that—at least, not to himself. As much as he hated to admit it, Dean _hadn't_ thought about the consequences to the Sweeds or anyone else, for that matter, if he and Sam were spotted. He'd only thought about how easy it would be for the two of them to get away. He hadn't considered what it would mean to those they left behind.

And thinking about those consequences now made his heart stutter in his chest.

Dean knew that in too many ways his world was Sam. It had been the two of them (three before, but even then...) for so long that he had a tendency to lose sight of what was beyond sometimes. He interacted with that "beyond" in the girls he slept with, in the victims he saved; but for the most part those contacts were fleeting, people passing through his world and back into their own with very little lasting impact.

There were exceptions, of course. Bobby had always been a connection to that "other" world—that world Sam had always longingly referred to as "normal." Not that Bobby was normal himself. But he seemed to exist in a sort of in-between state that allowed him to cross back and forth without much effort.

And over the years Dean had come to see the Sweeds as a place in "normal" where he and Sam could visit. Safe, easy. They'd been touched by Winchesters' own world and its monsters once, but largely—mostly—they were apart. And as much as he loved the Sweeds, they sometimes seemed to belong so completely to that other existence that they weren't even real.

But they were real – obviously. And, really, part of his world in a way that made his stomach twist thinking about the consequences to them if the feds realized that they'd been harboring two wanted felons... Luke disgraced, possibly fired or worse. Jo... The boys...

Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes. What the hell had he been thinking? No wonder Luke had been livid. It was a wonder he hadn't told them to hit the road, don't let the door hit you on the butt on your way out, thank you very much.

Luke, though—once he'd finished verbally smacking Dean around— had seemed content to trust that he'd been heard, taking his own turn at listening while the Winchesters explained their reasons for coming.

When they'd finished, Luke had sat for a long time, brow creased as he thought.

Sam and Dean let him work it through, patient in spite of themselves, while the older man came to a decision.

Dean chewed on the side of his thumb, watching Luke.

"If you were going to follow up on this, what do you need to do?" Luke finally asked.

Sam glanced at Dean. "Usually we try to talk to local law enforcement," he offered with a rueful grin at Luke, who returned it somberly. "Look at the scene." Sam hesitated. "The body."

Dean nodded his agreement when Luke looked at him. "We try to talk to the family, too," he added, noting the way Luke's jaw tightened at that. "Research what we can once we've gotten some basics."

"I don't want you talking to the Santoses," Luke said grimly.

Dean and Sam exchanged looks.

"I'll tell you what they said, but I don't want you..."

"Luke," Sam said gently, "we know it's invasive. And we hate it. But a lot of the time it's the only way to get information that..."

"I can get you whatever information you need," Luke cut him off.

Sam opened his mouth to try again, but paused when Dean shook his head at him.

_ Let it go. For now. _

"OK," Sam said instead. "Thanks."

Luke nodded. He clasped his hands in front of him, not meeting the eyes of either Dean or Sam. "I can't... I can't give you access to those places. I..."

"Don't worry about it," Dean said. "We can..." He stopped. "Well, maybe, the less said about that the better."

When Luke's head came up there was a genuine if almost imperceptible smile on his lips. "Yeah," he agreed wryly.

* * *

Luke hadn't given them access to the site where the body had been left, but he had told them where it was when he'd filled them in on what the official investigation was doing.

"I doubt there's anyone out there, but y'all still be careful, you hear? I don't know where all the feebies are."

Their "yes, sirs" had been automatic as they'd slid into the car.

There hadn't been anyone out there, just strips of yellow tape attached to stakes hammered into the hard-packed earth.

Sam crouched down next to the patch of scrub grass that still bore the signs of having been crushed under the weight of a body. He studied the vegetation and the ground below it, shifting blades of grass with a pencil.

"I can see some indications of blood on the grass, but nothing on the ground. So. Not killed here, but dumped."

"I guess the feds got one thing right," Dean drawled, jiggling the EMF reader as he walked carefully around the site. The lights jumped sluggishly, and Dean shook it again.

"Anything?" Sam asked, standing up to squint at his brother in the harsh sun. He huffed out a breath, lower lip protruding, trying to direct the air up to unstick his hair from forehead. One strand moved sluggishly, then resettled. Stepping over the police line, Sam used both hands to shove his hair out of his face.

"Not really." Dean was frowning at the instrument in his hands. "I don't think." He shook his head. "It flares a little, but...nothing for sure."

Sam nodded. It was about what they'd expected. If this was just the dump site, any spirit that might be involved wouldn't have been around long enough to leave much of a signature for the EMF to pick up. He sighed, wiping at a trail of sweat creeping down the side of his face.

Dean arched an eyebrow at him. "Those shorts keeping you cool?" he asked.

"Shut up," Sam shot back. " _You're_ making me hot in those jeans and boots."

Dean smirked. "Please, Sammy," he said coyly. "We're brothers."

"Shut up," Sam grumbled again. The heat was making him grouchy. And with Dean's one concession to the heat being to forego his flannel over-shirt, his brother's lack of reaction to the temperature seemed patently unfair to Sam.

Sam grimaced at the slash of a dry branch across the back of his knee, bending down to rub soothingly at the scrape. He was wearing boots with his shorts – always a good look – because he'd known they'd need to tramp through some underbrush on the way to the site. But at this point he wasn't sure that the damage to his legs was worth the "cooler" attire. He sighed, wishing to himself that he'd listened when Dean had told him he'd regret the shorts—after he'd finished laughing uproariously at Sam.

"Big brother always knows best," Dean scolded him mockingly, as if he were reading Sam's mind.

"Shut up," Sam mumbled for a third time, reduced now to little brother rejoinders.

Dean grinned and moved ahead of Sam as they made their way back to the car, trodding down a path for Sam to step in behind him.

Sam smiled at the back of his brother's head, Dean's shoulders swinging jauntily as he stomped his way along.

"So. The body?" Sam asked.

Dean made a tsking noise and threw a glance over his shoulder at Sam. "Yeah."

"Tonight?"

The sun was on its way down, arcing slowly toward the horizon.

"Yeah."

* * *

"There you are!" Jo spoke to the dog as he dashed into the kitchen ahead of her youngest and oldest nephews. She paused, giving the tall young man at the back of the pack a stern glance even as she scrubbed D-dog behind his ears. "You didn't take him _with_ you, did you, Michael?" she asked. "I was worried!"

"Sorry, mom," the kid said. "Tommy asked and..." He didn't have to finish his sentence. She knew how it ended. The dog headed from her to the dish of water on the floor, drinking thirstily.

"Yeah," she sighed, putting her arms around the younger boy who was giving her a hug. She bent to kiss the top of his head and then pulled back sharply. She just managed to keep herself from pushing Tommy away.

_ What is that smell?  _ she didn't say.

"How was your day?" she asked instead, trying not to breathe through her nose. He reeked of sweaty prepubescent-boy, muddy lake water and an underlying musky smell that was vaguely...

"Did you know they have _skunk_ at camp?" Tommy demanded. He was still subdued for him, but no longer the shell of a boy who'd left that morning.

Jo blinked.

"He doesn't have his smell glands anymore, but he was really cool and I fed him, like, a _ton_ of carrots."

Jo looked at Michael, not particularly happy to hear any of this.

Michael was getting himself and his brother a glass of water and answered her unspoken question without even turning around. "The owners found him this spring. They think he may have been a pet or something that got released, because he was pretty tame and already descented. He's kind of a mascot."

"He's real friendly, Aunt Jo," Tommy tried to reassure her, "but D-dog _really_ didn't like him, did he Michael? We had to put him in the car just so I could get Stinky out of the cage and pet him. He..."

"He's had his shots," Michael said quickly. "And I made him put him..."

"His name is _Stinky_ ," Tommy reiterated, because he seemed to think his aunt hadn't reacted to the name with the appropriate level amusement. Jo smiled tightly at him.

"... back in the cage," Michael continued, "as soon as I realized Tommy'd actually taken him out."

The younger boy was reaching for the fridge, and Jo grabbed him by the collar before he could touch the handle of the refrigerator.

"Go take a bath," she told him, tugging the boy away from any potential contact with food and aiming him toward the door out of the kitchen.

"But I'm hungry," he whined, struggling slightly.

"I'm going to rename _you '_ Stinky,'" she told him. "Bathe first. Eat second."

"Aw, _man_ ," he protested.

"I think, 'yes, ma'am,' is the response you're looking for," she said with a raised eyebrow.

His lip thrust out, but he still slouched in the correct direction.

"Tommy," she warned when he didn't respond verbally.

"Yes, ma'am," he muttered

She ignored the rolled eyes, calling it a win for the moment. But hating the slump of his shoulders as he moved to obey. She bit her lip. "Dean and Sam are here," she offered.

"They are?!" Tommy flung himself back toward her, and she stiff-armed him away when he got close enough to smell again.

"Yes," she responded, trying to angle her nose away from him. "They're out right now, but they'll be home in time for supper."

"Yea!" Tommy cried. He twirled to his brother. "Michael! Sam and Dean are here!"

"I heard, squirt," his brother laughed, abandoning the water glasses he'd filled. He grabbed his little brother, and with a grin at his aunt, bent suddenly, heaving the boy over his one shoulder. Tommy was already giggling and struggling, and he shrieked when his brother slapped him smartly on the rear end. "Let's go get cleaned up."

* * *

Jake got back from Daisy's house and the impromptu vigil among the local teenagers while Tommy was in the shower, and when the Winchesters straggled back in not much later, they'd asked him what questions they could about the girl and her family. They filed what he said away for the moment, both knowing they would need to sit down with Luke sometime soon.

They had dinner that night without Luke. But given everyone else's presence and energy at the table, his absence was barely noticed.

Tommy chattered determinedly at Dean and Sam, never mentioning the body or asking exactly why the Winchesters were there. The family let their youngest member set the tone for the evening, indulging and teasing until he'd worn himself out and was dragged upstairs to bed. Dean knew from the set of Jo's shoulders that she was planning on telling Tommy what had happened to Amelia when she tucked him in. He didn't envy her that job.

"So why are y'all here?" Michael asked the question as soon they heard the sound of footfalls above them.

"We read about the murder. We think it might be out kind of thing," Dean answered easily. They'd long ago stopped trying to hide what they did from Michael and Jake.

Puzzled, Michael sat forward with a quick glance at his brother. Jake mirrored his posture. "Why?"

Sam was just finishing up filling them in when Jo re-entered the family room.

Conversation stopped as Michael asked, "How is he?" Jake had told Michael about Amelia briefly while Tommy was still getting cleaned up.

Jo just shook her head, stopping next to Michael and running a hand gently over his hair. "How are you, sweetheart?" Michael and Amelia had run in the same social circle in school, even if they hadn't been close.

He didn't answer beyond leaning more heavily into his aunt and letting his eyes slide closed while she petted him.

"There's going to be a prayer vigil at St. Anne's tomorrow evening," she said gently. "Do you think you can get away from camp again?"

She tilted her face down toward him, and he shrugged uncertainly. "I don't know. I'll ask." He took a deep breath and shook himself. "I should probably get going." He pushed himself up from the couch.

"Honey, can't you just call? I hate for you to be doing all this driving, especially at night."

He smiled. "I wish I could, but I'm in charge of church in the morning, and I can't just dump that on someone at this point. I'm sorry." He gave her a quick, hard hug. "I'll be careful." He lifted a hand to Sam and Dean as he headed toward the door, knuckling the top of Jake's head as he went by. "See y'all."

Jo trailed after him unhappily. "Call when you get there?"

A nod and a last kiss, and he was gone.

Jo sighed. "Well," she said heavily. "We've got church ourselves in the morning. Jake, sweetie, you about ready to call it a night?"

To Dean's surprise the kid nodded and got to his feet. "Yeah. Night," he said to the Winchesters.

"Good night," they both said.

When Jo and Jake were gone, Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean. "Give it an hour?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

* * *

Dean snagged the keys for the Sweeds' truck from their mudroom hook as he and Sam eased out of the house. An old pickup parked in the shadows was much less likely to be noted or commented on by the locals than the Winchesters' easily recognizable Impala. Dean whispered an apology to the car as they glided past her.

"She'll forgive you," Sam said dryly.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Doesn't mean I like hurtin' her feelings this way any better."

Sam had no comment.

Fake IDs and a smooth story weren't going to do them any good getting them into a place where they were known. An old fashioned B&E was order of the day.

Their hopes that the security system for the morgue would be fairly easy to evade were fulfilled, and Dean sighed in relief when the window he was opening slid up without a resultant pealing of alarms. He sent Sam a brief thumbs up where his brother was crouched at the corner of the building, having cut power to the security panel. Sam was at the window in a heartbeat, hand at Dean's heel, giving him a "helpful" boost across the sill.

Dean bit back a yelp as the added momentum almost toppled him onto the floor. He caught himself, though, and slid out of Sam's way as his brother slithered into the room. They took a moment, both crouched against the wall, to check-out the dimly lit space in front of them.

Sam pointed toward the wall across from them with the line of refrigerated drawers. "There," he whispered.

"Yeah," Dean sighed unhappily.

Dean started tugging open drawers while Sam crossed to the M.E.'s desk, digging through files and papers before unearthing the one they were looking for.

"Number 5," Sam said, just as Dean was drawing the appropriate tray out.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Here she is." He swallowed uncomfortably. Sam stepped up next to him and took a similar uneasy breath.

Squaring his shoulders, Sam drew back the sheet that covered the body, while Dean pulled the EMF reader out of his pocket. He flipped it on and the thin, rising squeal of the gadget made both Winchesters startle slightly. Quickly, Dean switched off the sound, and they watched the lights along the top of the little device flash and flicker insistently.

"Jackpot," Dean said quietly.


	5. Chapter 5

Prentiss reread the sign on the front door of the lobby.

It still said: "We are closed on Sundays until 6 p.m. Guests, if you have an emergency, please call..." with a number.

They'd been told when they checked in that the diner and motel pretty much shut down on Sundays, though they were welcome to call if they had any problems at all. But the sign said "emergency." Emily vacillated back and forth. With a slightly guilty grimace, she dialed the number.

"Hello?"

"Um, hello," Emily faltered. "Ms. Sweed?"

"Yes?"

"This is Emily Prentiss. I'm in room 12 at the motel?"

"Oh, yes. Agent Prentiss, of course. Can I help you? Is there anything wrong?"

"Well. I hate to disturb you, because it isn't an emergency, but the cable seems to be out over here, and I was wondering if there was a quick fix to that? I checked with my colleagues, and it's out in their room, too, so it doesn't seem to be just me. I don't want to trouble you because..."

"No, no, no, please don't worry. Are you at the lobby? Let me meet you there in a couple of minutes."

"Are you sure? I really hate..."

"I'm positive. There's a key under the mat, if you want to go on in. It's way too hot to be standing outside. I'll be right there."

Emily flipped the mat over with the toe of her shoe as she disconnected the call. Sure enough.

Letting herself in, Emily wandered over to the desk, leaning up against it and scanning the postcards tacked to a bulletin board on the wall. They were from across the country, with a few from other countries as well.

A door to the back swung open, and Jo Sweed came into the room. She held out her hand. "Agent Prentiss?"

"Emily, please," she said, shaking the hand that was offered. J.J. had gotten their room when they'd checked in the night before, so this was Emily's first meeting with the owner of the motel and the sheriff's wife.

"And I'm Jo," the woman returned with a smile. "Let me check something in here, and if that doesn't work, we'll try your room."

The woman was dressed in a skirt and blouse and a pair of low heels. Not exactly what Emily would have expected for a lazy Sunday morning. Emily followed her into a small office off to the side and watched as Jo fiddled with a box, turning it off, then back on again. She flipped on the small television sitting on the desk and got a clear picture of what looked like a local morning show.

Jo brightened. "Maybe that worked." She sounded surprised. "Let's see if it's on in your room."

They walked in somewhat awkward silence down to Emily's room. Jo sent her slanting glances as they went, biting her lip. Married to the sheriff, Jo was sure to know more about the case than she probably should, and Emily figured the woman was trying to figure out how to make small-talk without stepping into the minefield of a conversation about a body and a missing girl. _How are you enjoying your stay?_ just wasn't ever going to be a good question to ask a visiting FBI agent with the BAU.

When they reached the room, Jo let Emily open the door and precede her in. Emily headed for the television and switched it on. Snow.

"Shoot." Jo ducked behind the television.

Emily stood awkwardly by her bed while the other woman worked. "You know what?" Emily finally said. "Please don't worry about it. You're on your way somewhere – church I'm betting, and this really is not important." She was starting to feel incredibly foolish. "I just... There's supposed to be marathon of Battlestar Galactica on tonight, and I'd thought I could watch when we got back, but if I can't, I can't. I just... I sometimes wind down with the television after I get back to the room and..." Emily realized she was babbling and stopped.

Jo had straightened and was watching her with a strange look on her face.

At that moment, Reid stuck his head into the room. "Emily? Are you ready to leave? Did the cable get fixed? What..." He stopped talking when he saw Jo.

"We're working on it," the woman said with an easy smile. "This actually explains a conversation I had with one of my nephews earlier this morning that I didn't fully understand. Now I know why he wants to skip something he originally wanted to go to tonight." She was shaking her head. "Why he can't just tell me..." She broke off. "Anyway. Let me check a couple of other things. And if worse comes to worst y'all can watch at our house." The moment the words were out the woman's mouth, what Emily could only categorize as an _oh crap_ expression, flashed across her face.

"Oh, no," Emily was saying as Reid chirped, "Cool!"

Jo's laugh was a little strained. "I'll be back in a sec," she said before she left the room.

Reid stood there with for a few seconds, hands in his pockets as he looked around vaguely. He blinked at Emily. "Um. I guess I'll just..." He leaned his head toward the door and then followed the direction out of the room. She shook her head with a smile.

While she waited, Emily straightened up the vanity area around the sink, dropping her toothbrush into a glass and re-stuffing her make up into its bag. She wasn't a freak about a neat room, but having things in their place helped make her often chaotic life feel a little more controlled.

There was a rap on the door and then another head poking into the room. "Jo?"

"She's not here," Emily said as the man pushed the door open. "But she said she'd be right back."

He looked surprised to see her there, and was actually reversing his direction back out the door when she turned. Their eyes met, and there was a quick shift of his expression from "caught off-guard" to "watchful wariness." He was a good-looking guy about Emily's own age, tall and athletically built with short hair and a face that just missed being pretty with its slight scruff of a beard and the deep crinkles around his eyes.

They assessed each other across the room.

"Hey," he said, expression changing again, tautness easing, now giving Emily a look she recognized easily. It was more subtle than a Joey Tribbiani "How _you_ doin'?" leer. But the underlying come-on was certainly there.

"Hey," she returned dryly.

He took a slight, sauntering step into the room, and Emily raised an eyebrow at him.

"I help out around the place," he said. "You having a problem with the cable?" His voice was deep and the husk to it sent a shiver of something up Emily's spine. It was clear he knew the effect he had on women, though, and Emily kept her face deliberately blank.

"Yes," she answered evenly. "But Ms. Sweed is taking care of me, thank you."

Her choice of words registered with both of them at the same time, and the man's eyebrow waggled up suggestively. When he opened his mouth, Emily suspected that his reply was either going to make her laugh or punch him.

"Dean?"

But before he was able to say anything, Jo reentered the room and his mouth closed abruptly, the amiably lecherous expression slipping off his face as if it had never been there.

Emily blinked.

Jo hesitated, eyes going from Dean to Emily and back again quickly, an uneasy look on her face. Emily frowned slightly, wondering what that meant.

"Tommy said something about the cable being out?" he told Jo. His entire demeanor had changed, even the tone of his voice altering to something that was more, well, genuine, than what he'd just been using with her. "I thought maybe you'd need some help."

"Oh." Though her eyes flicked to Emily again, Jo's face smoothed out some. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said. "I did the whole turn the box off and on thing in the office and that set worked just fine, but none of the sets here seem to be working. Do you think the wind last night might have dislodged something?"

Dean shrugged. "That might be it. I can check the connections."

"Would you, sugar? Agent Prentiss is hoping to catch the BSG marathon tonight." She said it with a sly glance at Emily.

Emily couldn't help the slight smile in response to Jo's teasing, though it still occurred to her that Jo hit "agent" with a strange sort of emphasis.

Dean turned toward her sharply, a couple of expressions shifting over his face. "Agent, huh?" he said. Then raised an eyebrow at her. "BSG? Really?"

Emily felt a slight flush rise on her face. _Damn it._ She straightened her shoulders and stared at him. "Yes," she said coolly.

He grinned suddenly, looking at Jo. His laugh – open and surprisingly young-sounding – startled Emily.

"Well, if we can't get things working down here, you could probably join the geek-patrol up at the house, couldn't she, Jo?"

Jo frowned at him, even as she admitted, "I've already asked, but I'm sure we can get this fixed before that's necessary." She sent a tight smile to Emily, the moment of connection the gentle gibe seemed to have indicated gone.

Emily returned the smile politely. "Please don't worry. Dr. Reid and I have seen all the episodes more than once. We'll live."

"Dr. Reid," Dean repeated. "Let me guess, scrawny-looking kid who wears his gun on his belly? Figures," he said wryly.

Emily felt her hackles rise in team-programmed defensiveness of Reid.

"He'd be a great addition to a _true_ 'geek-patrol,'" Emily said icily. "You'll learn things about the show and space travel that you never knew before." She didn't mention that her own knowledge of the show rivaled Spencer's.

Dean smiled his acknowledgment of her words, but was already turning toward the television, squatting down to get a look at the back panel.

"Prentiss?" It was Hotch this time. "You ready?" When he noticed Jo, he nodded at her. "Mrs. Sweed."

"Agent Hotchner," she said and shifted to the side almost blocking Dean from view.

Dean stayed where he was.

"I'm ready," Emily said, grabbing her satchel off the bed.

* * *

"I cannot believe I did that," Jo moaned. "Why can't I just keep my stupid mouth shut?" She glared at Dean. "And you didn't help any. Do not flirt with the FBI agents, please. You're going to give me a heart attack."

They were eating lunch, church finished. Luke was joining them for a brief bite before heading back to the office.

"Josie," Luke said patiently. Jo had been berating herself – and Dean – almost non-stop since she'd gotten back from the hotel. Luke suspected that she'd missed most of the sermon, though he also knew that in addition to fretting, she'd been petitioning heaven for mercy. So maybe it would all work out. "Agent Prentiss seems not to have recognized the boy. And Dean's promised not to work his considerable powers of seduction on the poor woman, so..."

Dean was grinning his agreement and ignoring Sam's snort of derision. Dean was joking about the encounter now, but Luke knew he'd been somewhat shaken by his unexpected encounter with the feds—not just with Agent Prentiss, but Agent Hotchner, as well.

"What's 'seduction'?" Tommy asked curiously, potato chip hanging suspended half-way to his mouth.

Jake choked on his Coke, spewing soda out of his mouth and nose. Luke pounded on his back, while Jo gave the boy a G-rated definition of the word.

" _Anyway_ ," she went on. "I'm hopeful we'll be able to get the cable fixed before the agents get back tonight, but it's still a good reminder to all of us to be careful what we say. I just didn't _think_ , and..."

"A good reminder," Luke agreed, cutting her off with an apologetic smile before she got too far back down the path of self-flagellation. Jo closed her mouth, nodding. "We all need to be aware. Right Tommy and Jake? Y'all got it?"

Both boys nodded, solemn now.

"As much as possible, you boys need to avoid the FBI agents, OK? Tommy, if they want to talk to you again, I want you to make sure you ask for Mom or me, OK?

The boy bit his lip, but nodded, "OK."

Luke rubbed an approving hand over Tommy's head. He stood. "OK, I'm headed back." He jerked his chin at Dean and Sam. "Y'all walk out with me?" It was posed as a question, but wasn't really.

The Winchesters followed him.

"Security system at the morgue was messed with last night," Luke said evenly as they made their way to the sheriff's dust covered Bronco. Sam and Dean exchanged looks. "Nothing's missing and the patch job on the electronics looks like it will hold, but..."

"Do the feds know?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, they know," Luke said with a bite of impatience. "They were standin' right there when Robby came in to tell me."

"Man, I'm so sorry," Sam said guiltily. "I really thought I'd covered our tracks pretty well. I..."

But Luke was shaking his head. "It wasn't really your fault. Automated monthly maintenance check. Sent Rob an alert." He sighed. "I tried to minimize it, implied it might have happened any time since the last check, talked about pranking kids. But still. It's on the agents' radar. And that's not good."

Dean leaned against the side of the truck. "Crap."

"Anything I need to know?" Luke asked.

"There's definitely something supernatural involved, something powerful," Dean said. "Even after the amount of time that's passed since the girl was killed, the echo it left set off the EMF reader like it had just happened."

Luke paled somewhat under his tan. "So, what does that mean?"

"It means it's probably the spirit of the original killer," Sam put in. "The mutilations and the marking on the forehead – that can't be coincidence." He paused and then asked, "Is the numbering on the forehead part of the pattern? It wasn't in any of the news reports, but she had a nine..." He trailed off.

Luke nodded. "Each of the women had a number tattoo, and these new victims are matching up physiologically with the earlier women and the corresponding number. Not just physically, though, stage of life, profession, too." He couldn't suppress the shudder.

"And Amelia? She match with one of the first group?" Dean asked speculatively.

Luke shook his head. "Yeah, but not exactly. That's the thing. There are some similarities – same age, both cheerleaders, similar personalities; but physically, she's different. Dark hair instead of red, not freckled, maybe heavier. The agents say that's new. Up until this point, they've matched on every point."

"Maybe a different person took Amelia," Sam suggested.

"That's a possibility," Luke admitted, "but no one seems to think that's the case. They're speculating about why the M.O. would have changed."

Dean cleared his throat. "What number is Amelia?" he asked.

"Eight," Luke said. "He's not going in the same order this time around."

"I don't remember seeing that women have been taken from the same location bodies were found," Sam said giving Luke a questioning look.

"They weren't." Luke rubbed agitated fingers over his forehead. "And that's another thing. They're thinking maybe a car broke down or he's stranded somehow." He stopped, squinted first at Sam, then Dean. "Can a ghost have transportation issues?"

"Maybe?" Dean said, thoughtfully. "If the spirit is tied to something that's mobile and it stops moving."

"There are a couple of people in the area who aren't from around here – one older woman who's visiting family and a young guy working on an old Mustang he's driving around the country."

Dean perked up at the words "old Mustang." "Yeah?" he said. "What year?"

"'66 according to Agent Morgan." Luke grinned at Dean. "Beautifully restored and cherry red."

"Dude," Dean breathed.

"That was pretty much Derek's reaction," Luke admitted. "And, in his professional opinion, even if owning such a fine piece of machinery didn't automatically take the boy out of the realm of sociopath, the kid is too young—just 19. And he doesn't otherwise fit their profile." Luke hesitated. "Although, if this isn't the same guy and it's his ghost... possessing someone..." he stopped, uncomfortable with this particular line of thought.

Dean and Sam exchanged glances.

"Where's he working on the car?" Sam asked.

"Mac's," Luke said.

Dean nodded. "Maybe I'll swing by there."

* * *

Emily flipped her television on and sighed when all she got was static. _Damn_.

It had been long, frustrating day and all she'd wanted to do was put on her pajamas and watch television until she fell asleep.

They'd pulled in the two visitors in the area for informal interviews. Even if neither of them fit the profile, there was a possibility they might have encountered the unsub on the way to town, given him a lift, seen a hitchhiker. The kid, Gabe Wills, had gotten a somewhat more intense look because at least he was male, if entirely too young, and after meeting him, way too well-adjusted. Although ...

Emily had taken lead in the interview, Hotch sitting passively behind and to her left. The profile said that the unsub had a problem with confident, self-assured women, so Emily had questioned the kid assertively, speaking down to him, subtly mocking his desire to drive cross-country, and once making an unmistakably condescending remark about his lack of a college education.

Gabe Wills had maintained a steady, if confused, and eventually, slightly defensive demeanor. But he hadn't risen to the bait in any significant way and had actually managed to stay surprisingly polite throughout the interview considering how Emily had treated him.

There'd been one flash, though. One _instant_ where the look in his eyes had changed, where he'd looked her and ... But as quickly as it had appeared, it had been gone, leaving the kid with a slightly puzzled expression on his face and an apologetic, "I'm sorry. Wh- What was the question again?"

The question really hadn't been one, but Emily had repeated what she'd said anyway. "I've always thought guys who spend so much time _handling_ big engines are probably compensating for a lack handling in other areas of their lives." She'd tried to recreate the cocky disdain she'd managed the last time she'd said it. But the unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach had made her doubt she'd had any success.

This time it had gotten her an offended scowl with accompanying eye roll, but not the dark frission of hatred and rage she could have sworn she'd seen earlier.

"Whatever," had been the boy's witty rejoinder. "Are we done?"

They had been, and they'd let him go. There'd been nothing to hold him on and though she'd shared with the team what she thought she'd seen, she'd been quick to admit she wasn't sure if it had been anything at all.

Hotch had nodded thoughtfully. "We get those feelings for a reason," he'd said steadily. "We'll all keep it in mind."

Emily shook herself, turning from the television and reaching for her night clothes. She hated those times when something felt _off_ but she couldn't put her finger on it. So she filed it away, and deliberately turned her mind toward something else. Sleep.

There was a knock on her door, and she knew who it was before she opened it.

"Is yours still out, too?"

"Yeah," she admitted.

"Mrs. Sweed said we could watch at her house," he reminded her hopefully.

Emily balked. "I don't know, Spencer. I'm sure she was just being polite. Plus, it's almost midnight. I ..."

"But she _said_ it was OK," Reid said, looking at her with huge, not-understanding eyes. The fact that he was so completely lacking in social consciousness was honestly one of the things that endeared Reid most to Prentiss. It was also one of the things that frustrated her beyond speech sometimes.

She sighed. "Reid, sometimes people say things..."

"But the one starting next is the first part of "Crossroads," and then they're playing part II right after. Those are two of the best episodes of the entire series, and I think that ..."

Emily rubbed a tired hand over her eyes, letting Reid's enthusiasm wash over her. Those were two of her favorite episode, as well. And damn it, if he was going to get all goofy and excited about the stupid show and beg her to go with him, she...

"Please, Emily. Please?" He was watching her with those damn puppy eyes. "If the lights aren't on, I promise we don't even have to knock. And if she looks like she doesn't want us, I promise I won't go in. If I'm looking for it, I can tell those things, I can." He was so earnest.

"Fine," she capitulated. "Let me change clothes."

"Really?" His whole being lit up with pleasure, and it was all she could do not to hug him and ruffle his hair.

"Yes, really." Derek was so never going to let her forget what a pushover she was when it came to Reid. "I'll come get you when I'm ready."

* * *

"The lights are on," Reid said excitedly. As if she couldn't see that as they walked back toward the house.

"Yes, they are," she agreed.

They climbed the stairs up the porch, and Emily took a deep breath before she knocked on the door.

"Agent Prentiss." The look on Jo Sweed's face would have been comical if Emily hadn't been so acutely embarrassed by the situation. The woman was dressed for bed – light pajama bottoms covered by a robe. _Great._

"Hi," Emily said with her most placating smile.

"Hi." Out of the corner of her eye, Emily saw Reid give a little wave.

To her credit, Jo recovered quickly. "The cable's still out," she remembered.

"Yes, it is," Emily said with another wincing grin, trying to marshal her excuses for showing up on this woman's doorstep at midnight expecting to be allowed to watch her television.

"You said if our cable was out when we got back we could watch at your house," Spencer interjected hopefully.

Emily closed her eyes. She'd really hoped Spencer would let her lead on this. Apparently not.

When she cracked her eyes open again, Emily saw that Jo was smiling kindly, if tiredly, at Reid. The woman's eyes went from Spencer to Emily and the smile deepened somewhat, like she understood exactly what had happened. "Yes, I did," she admitted.

But Emily could still read the hesitation.

"Jo?"

The handyman—Dean—from the morning came into the entry way. He was barefoot, wearing a t-shirt and a pair of loose jersey shorts. The look on his face was cautious, like he was checking up on Jo. Emily couldn't help the upward movement of her eyebrows. _So maybe not just handyman._

Next to her, Reid moved sharply, and when she turned to look at him, he was focused on the new arrival. He looked funny, but Emily wasn't sure it wasn't the yellow glow of the porch light. "Reid?"

There was a crease between Spencer's eyebrows, but his expression cleared when he looked at Prentiss. "Yeah?"

"You OK?"

His eyes cut quickly between Jo and Dean before returning to Emily. "Yeah. Fine."

Emily shook her head and just avoided an eye roll. When she turned back to Jo, the woman was studying Reid almost apprehensively. An awkward silence settled around them, and Jo continued to watch Spencer like she was expecting him to say something.

He didn't. Gave her his quirking little smile. And Jo she said, "Well. Y'all come on in. Dean, you remember Agent Prentiss. And this is Dr. Reid."

"Emily," Prentiss said, extending a hand to Dean. "And Spencer."

Spencer waved again.

Dean shook her hand carefully and nodded just as seriously at Reid. He looked to Jo.

"Aunt Jo!" There was an impatient shout from the interior of the house. "It's starting!"

She winced and glanced up the stairs to her right. "Have I only imagined that pause button on the remote control?" she called back in a muted voice that still carried well. "And stop yelling," she muttered to herself. "The youngest is supposed to be asleep," Jo told Emily when she noticed she was being watched.

Emily nodded her understanding.

"Fine," came the answer from the other room. A beat. "Can we make popcorn?"

"Sure," she responded, then smiled ruefully at Emily and Spencer. "It's only midnight, right? Does that sound good to y'all?"

At their nods, she led the way back to the family room.

"Look, Sammy," Dean said as he preceded them into the room. "Jo invited the FBI over to watch television."

An impossibly tall young man startled off the couch as they entered. He was dressed similarly to Dean, a worn t-shirt over a fraying pair of sleeping shorts. His eyes went to Dean first, then shifted uncertainly between Emily and Spencer. His dismay was almost as comical as Jo's, but more confusing.

"Uh. Hi?"

"Hi," Emily said. "I'm Emily." Her hand was engulfed by a huge palm.

"I'm Sam." He looked at Dean again.

There was no explanation of who he was, and he didn't sound young enough to be the one who'd asked about popcorn.

"Evidently, the feds are huge BSG fans," Dean said mockingly. "Who'd a thunk it?"

"Dean," Jo said reprovingly, and he ducked his head, giving Jo a quick grin. She turned to Emily and Reid. "Are y'all hungry for something more than popcorn? I actually have some leftovers from supper if you're interested. It's lasagna," she offered.

"Not for me. Thank you, though," Emily said. "Popcorn will be great."

"Yeah. No. Popcorn's fine," Reid said. But Emily could read the _want_ on his face.

Jo was watching the young man again, and this time read him as easily as Prentiss had. "Are you sure, honey? Because it would really be a favor to me to have someone finish up the last of it."

"Really?"

God, Emily loved this kid. In some ways he was so _easy_.

"Absolutely," Jo answered. "Y'all sit down, and I'll get it heated up."

From the kitchen, the sound of popcorn popping drifted in along with the smell. A timer dinged.

"That'll be the first course," Jo said. "And my nephew Jake with..."

The teenage boy coming into the room was focused on the bag of popcorn he was trying to open without burning himself. His head came up in response his aunt's voice, and, apparently startled by the sight of newcomers, he jerked the bag sharply, opening it abruptly, yelping when he was scalded by the steam that poured out. Popcorn exploded out of the bag, scattering in an arc around him.

There was a moment of startled silence before everyone burst into laughter.

"Smooth move, Ex-Lax," Dean chortled, wincing when that particular bit of childishness earned him a cuff to the back of the head by Jo.

A dog Emily hadn't noticed before darted forward, making quick work of any popcorn it could reach.

"That a boy," Dean said, crouching down to help clean up the mess, patting at the furry body that wriggled past him to get to more of the kernels.

"I'm sorry!" the kid said, staring at Emily and Reid with a strangely fearful expression. "I didn't..." He dropped to his knees, picking up popcorn.

"It's OK, honey, just grab D-dog, OK? Surely that much popcorn can't be good for him. Dean! What is wrong with you? Don't eat it off the floor. Go get a broom."

The boy got a hand on the dog's collar and started to pull him toward the door.

Dean had been popping the pieces he'd beaten the dog to into his mouth. "Wha?" he said around a mouthful. "Your floor is a lot cleaner than..."

It was Sam who smacked Dean this time. "I got it, Jo," he said.

Dean growled, making a grab at the other man's ankle as it went by and giving a sharp pull as he snagged it. Sam staggered, but recovered quickly, somehow managing to balance on one leg and lash out with the foot Dean held at the same time, knocking Dean out of his crouch and into a sprawl, while freeing the captured limb. He continued on into the kitchen.

"This isn't over," Dean called after him, stretched out full length on the floor. He picked up another piece of popcorn and put in his mouth before pushing himself agilely to his feet.

_ Ah _ , Prentiss thought. _Brothers_.

Uncertainly, Reid bent down to pick up the kernels that had landed at their feet. "I..."

Jo held out her hand. "Here, sweetie. Give those to me." She pointed to the couch. "Really. Y'all sit down. We've got this."

Awkwardly, the two agents moved toward the sofa.

Jo smiled. "I promise. Once the show gets started, we're very quiet. It's only insane like this, well, the rest of the time."

Reid and Prentiss exchanged looks as they sat. This was going to be interesting.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original author's note:
> 
> I hope those of you who are huge Battlestar Gallactica fans won't be too disappointed with this chapter. I loved the idea of that show being a connection between the characters, but, while I enjoyed the show myself, I was not as obsessed with it as I have been with other shows. So my ability to have anyone truly geek out over it was pretty limited. I relied on Jacob's TWoP recap of Crossroads, pt. 1 for what little dorkiness I tried to include. Anything that is wrong or misrepresented is totally my fault.
> 
> Also, I'm absolutely thrilled to hear that some folks have gotten into Criminal Minds because of this story. *rubs hands together* Bwahahahaha! Welcome to my world.

Reid balanced a plate of lasagna (and salad and bread) on his knees, reaching carefully for the milk Jo had set on the coffee table in front of him. He took a long gulp and returned his attention to the meal. It was _really_ good.

Emily sat to his left on the couch, juggling a glass of water and a handful of popcorn she'd grabbed from the bowl on the coffee table. Jo was in one of the recliners that flanked the couch with the boy, Jake, leaning with his back against the chair at his aunt's knees. Dean Winchester sat in the other chair, having snaked it out from under Sam just as his brother had been about to sit. There'd been a brief struggle with both of them in the chair, each trying to uproot the other before Sam had surrendered with a final, aggravated punch to his brother's shoulder when the chair had creaked loudly and ominously.

"Jerk," he'd muttered, flinging himself to the floor.

"Brat," Dean had returned with a grin, settling himself with a flourish.

Now Sam was leaning against his brother's chair, hand reaching into the bowl of popcorn Dean held on his lap.

As much as Spencer had been looking forward to this particular episode of Battlestar Galactica, he was having a hard time focusing, what with the two presumed-dead felons sharing the room with him.

He knew he'd been less than smooth when Dean Winchester had appeared in the entryway behind Jo. He was glad he'd managed to close his mouth, which had fallen open, before Emily had turned to look at him. Even so, she'd realized something had surprised him. And Jo. She'd known, Spencer thought. Had known that he'd recognized Dean and been waiting for him to bust them all. He'd seen it her eyes.

But he hadn't said anything, had only smiled in what he hoped would be a reassuring way, hoping she would think she'd been mistaken in what she thought he knew. And what had made him keep his mouth shut, had not been her reaction so much, as his own growing certainty that whatever the Winchesters were up to, it wasn't serial murder.

Reid's gut-read of the reason for Dean's sudden presence at the door had been that of protection. The man had wondered, Reid had thought, who would be showing up on the Sweeds' doorstep this late at night. He'd come to check on Jo, to make sure that she was alright. And there'd been a look exchanged between them – between Jo and Dean – a brief hand on Dean's arm that spoke of some shared experience in this arena.

That evidence of a connection, a relationship, outside of Dean's supposed anti-social, sociopathic obsession with his family had spoken loudly to Reid. So he'd stepped across the threshold into the house with a notorious fugitive and the family that was clearly harboring him. Them, it turned out, because there was Sam, of course, also dressed for bed when they'd entered the family room.

Spencer wasn't sure where the bigger risk for him was at the moment – that the Winchesters would turn out to be the monsters everyone thought them to be. Or that Hotch and the rest of the team—Morgan in particular—would actually kill him when they found out what he'd done.

He rather suspected it was the latter.

He took another bite of the lasagna and sat back to watch.

Jo had been right. Once the show had started, silence had descended. And if it was a fairly awkward silence, that was probably to be expected.

Reid bit his lip as his gaze strayed from the television to the Winchesters again. He kept his head down, letting his hair fall around his face to hide the fact that he was watching them. Both men were looking at the screen. When Tory appeared, Dean took the opportunity to poke Sam in the shoulder. Sam didn't turn, just shook his head in response. Dean grinned and said something low that was clearly meant only for Sam, who smiled, though he still didn't respond in words or look at his brother. Apparently satisfied with this non-answer, Dean settled back, taking another handful of popcorn.

The killers the BAU hunted were by and large solo acts, often isolated loners who used violence to satisfy dark cravings that could not be sated any other way. So when he'd come across the Winchesters, Spencer had read and reread their files, initially fascinated by the idea of the homicidal partnership between the two men. And the added twist of their sibling relationship had intrigued him, as well, even as he'd come to have serious doubts about the conclusions his colleagues elsewhere in the FBI had drawn.

It was one thing, though, to read about the brothers. It was another thing entirely to watch them interact with each other in person, to see them with this family.

Reid shook the hair out of his eyes to give him a clearer view of Jo and Jake. He wondered exactly how much they knew about the Winchesters' history. There was no question that both of them knew something of it. For all Jo's solicitousness, there was a very real fear under the surface of her hospitality. And Jake. Reid wasn't sure the boy had looked at the television for longer than a couple seconds at a time since the show started. He was chewing his lip almost bloody, eyes flitting constantly to the Dean and Sam, worried and afraid, with intermittent anxious glances at Reid and Prentiss.

But it was clear that the boy wasn't afraid of Winchester; he was afraid _for_ them.

Jake's uncertainty hadn't gone unnoticed by the Winchesters, either. Both men were watching the boy, though they were more subtle in their observation than Jake was.

On screen, Cassidy made her opening to the tribunal in the trial of Baltar, using a whiteboard to do the math on the remainder of humanity.

"Hey, Jake," Dean teased. "Did you double-check her numbers?"

The kid's eyes flicked to Reid, then Prentiss briefly.

"No," Jake mumbled, embarrassed. There was a pause. "Not really," he amended.

Dean grinned.

"They're actually not too far off." Reid couldn't help himself. "If you only count civilian casualties and not the military losses, then..."

"Yeah." Now Sam jumped in. "But I think she's also counting the 4800 who stayed in orbit, so I don't know if..."

Dean groaned. "Never mind," he said, cutting Sam off effectively, though he was still smiling. "What a bunch of dorks," he scoffed, then hesitated. "No offense, man," he said with a quick glance at Spencer.

Spencer shrugged. "None taken." Evidently Dean felt free to belittle his brother and family friend in company, but was socially adept enough to know that he probably shouldn't do the same to a stranger. Especially an FBI agent.

Silence fell again, occasionally broken by a mocking comment from Dean or a brief exchange between Sam and Jake – sometimes with input from Reid and Prentiss – about the minutia of the show. Dean actually surprised Reid a couple of times with fairly insightful comments about what was happening on screen. He might make fun, but apparently he was also paying close attention.

Just before the end of the first episode, Dean got up out of his seat.

"Don't even think about it," he said, pointing a warning finger at Sam.

As soon as he was out of the room, Sam was up and settling himself in the chair.

When Dean returned, he growled, pulling down on the back of the recliner, setting it rocking crazily. Sam latched on to the arms of the chair until Dean moved on, dropping to the floor to stretch out on his belly next to Jake, who had migrated there not too long before. This time it was the younger Winchester's turn to lean back triumphantly.

Dean lay down close enough to brush shoulders with Jake, and after a minute, he hooked a casual arm around the kid's neck. Jake leaned toward him, and Dean said something quietly in his ear. When the boy's head dropped and he nodded, Dean nodded, too, resting his hand briefly on top of the bowed head before returning his attention to the show.

Another connection, another crack in the wall of Dean Winchester's supposed megalomania.

Reid shifted his glance to Sam, wanting to gauge the man's reaction to his brother's closeness to the other boy. If the profile of the Winchesters was correct, both men would be almost pathologically jealous of any relationship that wasn't their own. Assuming Dean as the dominant personality because of his status as the older sibling, Sam's correspondingly submissive personality should be threatened by the presence of a child like Jake, younger still, potentially more easily handled or molded into the role of follower, liable to take Sam's place in their dysfunctional relationship.

But while Sam's face was troubled as he watched his brother and Jake, there was no hint of jealousy or rage. And when the tension along Jake's back eased after whatever Dean had said, Sam's own expression softened, too, smiling slightly when Jake actually squealed quietly at the end of the episode, shivering in anticipation as Tigh staggered around his cell while the haunting music played.

When the credits started to roll, Jake flipped over into Dean, looking at his aunt. "We can watch the next one right? You said we could watch both?"

Dean shoved him away, pushing himself somewhat unsteadily to his feet.

Jo smiled. "Yep. One more. At least for you and me. I'm not going to try to tell Sam and Dean – or Emily and Spencer, for that matter – how late they can stay up." Jo stood, too. "Why don't you pause it, baby, and we'll take a stretch break before we start the next one."

Jake scrambled for the remote.

Reid startled when Sam's hand moved suddenly into his field of vision. He looked up at the man looming over him.

"Take your plate?" Sam asked. He had the bowl he and Dean had been sharing in his other hand.

"Uh. Yeah," Reid said hurriedly, lifting the plate to pass over and almost dropping it when Sam reached for it at the same time. "Sorry! I..."

Sam caught the plate as it dipped. "I got it," he said easily. He turned to Emily. "You need anything?"

"Bathroom?" Emily asked.

Sam gestured with the plate. "Down the hall and on the left." He hesitated. "Um. Maybe." He put the dishes he'd been holding on the coffee table with a clatter. "I'll, uh. Just a sec." And then he kind of dashed down the hall.

Emily gave Reid a raised eyebrow of surprise and then grinned with sudden understanding when the clank of a toilet seat hitting porcelain and the faint rush of flushing reached them.

Sam came back into the room, blushing lightly. "Dean and I share that bathroom, and we weren't really expecting company, so ..." He cleared his throat self-consciously. "I think it's safe now."

Emily bit back a smile. "Thanks," she said and slipped off down the hall.

Reid looked at Sam quizzically. "Does Jo not use that bathroom, too?" he asked.

"Yeah?" Sam didn't see the connection.

"If you were embarrassed to have a woman see the state of the bathroom, why would you care if Emily sees it, but not if Jo does?"

Sam blinked at him. "Uh," he said uncertainly. He seemed to consider it though. "I guess because Jo would just rag on Dean since he was the last one in there? And Emily's a guest?" He shrugged. "I really don't know," he admitted.

"Huh," Spencer said thoughtfully.

Sam gave him a confused look before wandering off to the kitchen.

Reid sat back down on the couch and listened to the Winchesters and the Sweeds in the kitchen. He couldn't make out what was being said, but the quiet was occasionally broken by the sounds of laughter or a voice raised in an effort to be heard over the low thrum of conversation that filtered into the television room.

_ They're a family _ , he thought. _All of them._

Reid chewed on the inside of his cheek as he considered what he should do. He'd seen nothing over the course of the evening to change his opinion about the Winchesters, but the fact remained that the men were wanted felons and the team would probably be in the area for at least a couple more days. The longer everyone was in this close proximity, the more likely it was that one of the Winchesters would be recognized for who he was. And if that happened, there was no way Reid would be able to justify to himself not coming completely clean with his colleagues.

Reid couldn't help but wonder what the consequences of that would be.

The sheriff's name had not come up in conversation, but Reid couldn't believe there was a possibility that the man wasn't aware of the situation with the Winchester brothers. Spencer had worked with Luke the previous day on attempting to match victim types with women in the area. There'd been nothing the man could do really, but he'd tried. And Reid had liked him. The sheriff had been in way over his head and not afraid to admit it to the younger man, earnest in his desire to help, concerned about the people he seemed to feel were under his care, but also very aware of the limitations of his contributions.

When they'd finished going through the files, Luke had turned to Spencer, the older man's face gray with sickness at what he'd seen and read. "How do you do this?" he'd asked quietly.

It wasn't an uncommon question, and Reid had answered it the same way he usually did. "It can be tough," he acknowledged. "But a lot of times we can stop it from happening again. That helps." He'd smiled slightly when he'd said it, hoping it would help.

Luke had watched him steadily while Spencer had spoken and had nodded solemnly when he'd finished. "Thank you," he'd said seriously. "It's a good thing we have people with minds like yours," here he'd smiled, shaking his head in a kind of wonder, "working on these sorts of cases. Well." He'd stood, one hand resting briefly on Reid's shoulder. He'd patted Spencer gently once he'd been upright.

"Uh. Thanks." Reid had tried. "This will be..." He'd stopped when Luke had raised an eyebrow at him. "Thanks," he said.

Luke had just sighed. "Anytime," he'd said ruefully.

The truth was, he hadn't been a whole lot of help. But he hadn't been stupid, either, or unwilling to listen and learn. He was an observant man and clearly good at his job. He knew the people in his jurisdiction and he cared. With that combination of traits, it just wasn't conceivable to Reid that Luke wouldn't be aware of the Winchesters' past. Nor did it seem at all likely that he'd put his wife and kids at risk if he had any doubts about their safety in the company of Dean and Sam.

But if the sheriff knew that the two men in his home had been on the FBI's Most Wanted list, his own failure to turn them was going to be another complication for Reid. He sighed heavily, rubbing a hand through his hair.

"You OK?" Emily asked, retaking her spot on the couch.

"Yeah," Spencer said. "Just tired."

"I hear you," she said, leaning back. "I don't think I can stay up past this episode." She turned toward the kitchen. "They're a nice family, aren't they?" she said, almost wistfully.

In their line of work they so rarely came in contact with regular families just living their lives. Too often the families they dealt with were in the midst of crisis, overwhelmed with grief or anger or rage.

"Yeah," Spencer agreed quietly.

When the Sweeds and the Winchesters returned, the dog was with them, running in ahead of them, making a beeline for the spot where the popcorn had fallen earlier. The rest came as a unit, Jo in front and Dean bringing up the rear. Reid wondered if they even realized the significance of that formation.

But Jake and Sam quickly broke ranks, heading toward the back of the house. "Come on, I'll show you," Sam was saying as Jake trailed behind. The dog, evidently not finding any remaining kernels, left off his snuffling and trotted after them.

"Do you need anything before we start again, sweetheart?" Jo asked. Sincerity and anxiety warred again in her tone.

"No, thank you," Reid replied politely. He was always simultaneously intrigued and slightly offended by the endearments women he didn't know sometimes used with him. He'd never understood why they seemed to feel the need to treat him as if he were still a child, calling him pet names as if he were...

"Baby?"

Reid's eyebrows rose.

But Jo wasn't looking at him. She was looking at Dean.

"Would you mind running upstairs to check on Tommy? He's been having nightmares, but he's getting tired of my hovering. I... "

"Sure." Dean pointed a finger at Reid in much the same way he had at Sam earlier. "Don't let Sam take my chair," he ordered and loped out of the room.

Reid stood, not sure how to keep the enormous younger man out of the recliner. Maybe if he sat in it? Gingerly, Spencer lowered himself into the chair. He leaned back.

"Comfortable?" Emily asked wryly from her place on the couch.

"I..," he started as Sam and Jake came back.

Sam looked a little befuddled and kind of disappointed to find the chair occupied by someone other than his brother. But he didn't protest, just folded himself onto the floor at the other end of the couch, legs crossed.

"Well, hello there, sweet thing!" Emily was greeting the dog that had wiggled up next to her, rear end thrashing back and forth in concert with its tail. "Aren't you a handsome dog?" she cooed.

"Please, Agent Prentiss." Dean was back, holding up a hand as if in protest. "We're in company." He grinned, mightily pleased with himself, hooking a thumb at Reid to indicate that Spencer should exit the chair. "Thanks, man." He looked at Jo. "Kid's sound asleep."

Spencer struggled to his feet.

"Seriously, dude," Sam complained, rolling his eyes at Dean. "You had him save your seat? What are you, seven?"

Dean waggled his eyebrows and with a huff, Sam turned his attention grimly to the TV.

Jake started up the show.

About 45 minutes into the episode, the dog jumped up from where he'd been reclining against Sam and streaked into the kitchen with a happy yelp.

Reid saw the Sweeds and the Winchesters all exchange surprisingly troubled glances.

Dean stood. "I guess that's Luke," he said, and Reid thought the man actually looked a little pale. "I'll, uh..."

But Jo was shaking her head as she rose. "No. You stay here."

"Jo..."

"Dean." She was firm, but pleasant. "Sit down, sweetie." She smiled at Reid and Prentiss. "That'll just be Luke. I'm going to make sure he's had something to eat."

Prentiss nodded, oblivious to the tension in the room. "OK," she said cheerfully. Her eyes barely left the screen.

Dean eased back into his chair, eyes catching Sam's. They stared at each other and Sam shook his head slightly, expression as uncertain as his brother's. Dean lifted a shoulder almost imperceptibly in response.

Emily was the only one who caught the end of the show.


	7. Chapter 7

All things considered, Luke thought he was being pretty calm.

"They're _what_?!" he hissed at his wife.

"They're watching BSG in the family room," Jo said again, voice pitched low. "Honey..."

"Two federal agents are sitting in the den, watching television with Sam and Dean," Luke said. "I _told_ those boys...," he gritted.

"It's not their fault," Jo whispered vehemently. "It's my fault. I'm the one who invited them over. It was almost midnight, Luke. We had no idea they'd show up at that time of night. Dean came to the door because..." she faltered slightly, then finished, "because he was worried."

Luke sat heavily at the table. This was so not what he needed. Just when he'd thought things couldn't get any more difficult...

"I think everything's OK," Jo said uncertainly. She sat at another of the chairs, pulling it closer to him. "They don't... I don't think they recognize them." She put a hand on his arm, smoothing the fingers of the other through the short hair at his temple.

Luke closed his eyes. "Josie..."

"Let me get you something to eat, OK?" she cajoled. "Just eat something. And then... And then we'll figure it out."

"Yeah," he capitulated, resting his head in his hands. OK."

Jo stood, kissing him quickly. Eyes still shut, Luke listened to her open the cabinet, pulling out a plate before she opened the refrigerator. He rubbed a hand exhaustedly over his face. It had been a long few days, and he'd missed this. Missed sitting in his kitchen, missed the sounds of his wife fixing dinner and his kids – he could just hear the television – in the other room.

So he deliberately put aside the thought of who else was out in the den and let himself sit, took a deep breath, felt himself settle.

"Here, sweetheart," Jo said, setting food in front of him.

Somewhat groggily, Luke raised his head, the smell of reheated lasagna filling his nostrils. "This smells great," he said roughly. Cleared his throat. "Thanks."

Jo sat again in the chair beside him, quiet while he ate.

It didn't take him long to clear his plate. He sighed as he got to his feet, taking his dish to the sink. He rinsed it off and stuck it in the dishwasher before turning and leaning back against the counter. Jo stayed where she was, turning in her chair to face him.

He shook his head. "This is so screwed up, Josie. You know that, right?" He could feel the burn of _howdoIfixthishowdoIfixthis_ begin to churn in his belly. "I don't know what to do," he said helplessly. And he didn't. He couldn't figure out...

"I..."

"Jo?" It was Agent Prentiss, sticking her head into the kitchen with a slightly self-conscious smile. "Hi, Sheriff," she greeted Luke before turning to Jo again. "The show's over, and we just wanted to say 'thank you' for your hospitality." Over the woman's shoulder Luke saw Dr. Reid raise his hand in agreement. "We'll let you get to bed," Agent Prentiss laughed ruefully. "But thank you. Really. For letting us impose."

Jo smiled as she rose. "No imposition at all," she said. And this was one of the things Luke loved most about her. For all the fear and uncertainty the agents' presence had engendered, Jo _still_ didn't consider them anything but welcome. "We were glad to have you."

"You're very kind," Agent Prentiss said. She looked at Luke. "I kind of feel like we've been caught slacking," she told him wryly. "I could have sworn you were right behind us on our way out."

"I was," he said. "But we got a call from San Antonio about a possible I.D. on Amelia, and I wanted to stay to see if...," he broke off. "It was a body. It wasn't her." He looked at Jo quickly, saw the mix of fear and relief he himself had felt at the news.

"Well," Emily started, then moved to the side, resting a quick hand on Jake's shoulder as the boy tried to ease past her. "Sorry," she said, shifting completely into the room as Dean and Sam followed after Jake, glasses in hand, cautious expressions on their faces as they glanced at Luke.

Luke did his best not to frown his unhappiness with the situation at them

Jake crossed to Luke, leaning against the counter next to him, not drawing away when Luke put an arm around his shoulders. "No news, kiddo," he said quietly.

Jake nodded, eyes on his feet. "K," he said. He stood for a second, pressing slightly into Luke's embrace. Then he pushed off. "Night." He left the room without meeting anyone's gaze.

When he was gone, Dr. Reid asked, tone mostly curious, "Did he know the girl?"

_ Past tense. _ Luke's throat closed around it.

"Most of the kids around here know each other on some level," Jo answered for him. "They weren't, _aren't_ , close, but they have good friends in common."

"I'm sorry," Reid said.

"Yeah," Luke said.

There was a moment of silence.

"How's your youngest doing?" Agent Prentiss asked with a sympathetic look to Jo.

His wife cleared her throat. "He's coping. It's just... hard. For him. For all of us, I guess."

"He's a strong kid, Jo," Dean said quietly. "He'll be OK."

Luke noticed Dr. Reid watching Dean, a slight frown on the younger man's face. Calculating, almost. When Sam stepped closer to Jo, Reid's eyes shifted, narrowing in consideration when Jo rubbed a hand over Sam's shoulder, acknowledging his presence and Sam's attempt to comfort.

"Well." Luke straightened abruptly, dislodging Reid's attention from Sam. "It's late. Y'all are probably tired." He said it with a smile so fake it almost hurt. He suddenly couldn't get the FBI out of his house fast enough. Away from his family.

Prentiss startled. "Oh, you're right. I'm s-..."

"I'll walk you out," Luke said, stepping between the Winchesters and the two agents.

Looking a little taken aback, Prentiss still followed the gesture Luke made for her to precede him out of the kitchen. She gathered up Reid as she went.

"Thank you, again," she called over her shoulder to Jo. But she didn't slow.

When they got to the front door, Luke opened it for them.

"I'll see you in the morning," he said.

"Good night," they both returned.

He closed the door behind them and slid the deadbolt home with an audible click.

* * *

"Wow," Emily said when the porch light switched off as they reached the bottom of the steps. "I guess the sheriff was _really_ ready for bed." She was a little surprised by the sting of hurt she was feeling at their sudden dismissal. She'd thought they'd managed to build a pretty cordial relationship with the man over the last couple of days. And the evening with his family, late as it had been, had been a nice break.

"He's just tired," Reid said vaguely. "It's been a lot for them." He didn't look at her, lost in some thought he wasn't sharing. Probably distracted by what had happened in that last BSG episode.

"I know," she said with a sigh. "It's just..."

Prentiss knew better; she did. She knew from long experience that the BAU was not there to make friends. They generally entered people's lives in the most horrific of circumstances. Local law enforcement, families of the victims, the victims themselves were stretched taut, grief and anger and confusion rarely making for people who were easy to be around. She knew that. The team knew that. It was one of the reasons, she thought, their group was so close. At the end of any day on a case, they only had each other.

She shook her head at herself, deliberately putting the strange funk she'd fallen into to the side. They had a job to do and her hurt feelings were beside the point.

* * *

"Mornin'." The sheriff approached their table just as the team was finishing breakfast.

Emily thought he was giving her an apologetic look.

"Good morning," she said as she slid out the booth with everyone else.

"Y'all headed into town?" he asked.

"We are," said Hotch, signing the check and neatly folding the receipt into his billfold.

"Would Agent Prentiss and Dr. Reid like to ride in with me?" he asked.

The two agents exchanged looks, and Emily raised an eyebrow, looking at Hotch for permission.

Hotch's own eyebrow arched slightly. "That's fine with me, if it's OK with them."

Spencer shrugged.

"That would be fine," Emily agreed. "Let me grab my stuff."

They hadn't gotten very far when the sheriff said into the awkward quiet, "I, uh, owe you both an apology for the way I hustled y'all out of the house last night. Jo pretty much chewed my head off for being rude." He grimaced, but Emily could tell he was in agreement with his wife. "I'm sorry about that." He looked first at Emily in the seat next to him, then caught Reid's eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Don't worry about it," Emily said. "It was late."

"Yeah," Reid said. "No problem."

"Thanks."

The silence was a little more comfortable now.

"So, Jo said they really enjoyed watching Battlestar with y'all. She said she thought maybe Sam had found himself a kindred spirit in Dr. Reid." He glanced in the rearview again at Spencer. "A _bosom_ friend, even," he said with a smirk that was meant, Emily thought, just for himself.

Emily felt her mouth fall open and turned in time to catch the discomfited look on Spencer's face.

She gave the sheriff an incredulous look. It was the way he'd hit "bosom" that had given him away. "Did you just make an _Anne of Green Gables_ reference?" she asked in amazement.

The, frankly, adorable flush that pinked the man's cheeks told the truth as he slid a glance at her. He hesitated. "Maybe," he muttered.

Emily couldn't help the bark of laughter that escaped. "Sheriff," she said seriously. "You have just risen _considerably_ in my estimation."

Now he grinned at her unabashedly. "Chicks dig guys who watch _Anne of Green Gables_ ," he said, giving her a roguish wink.

She grinned back at him. "You got that right," she agreed.

"Wait. What?" Reid had scooted up from where he'd been slouching slightly in his seat.

"It's true," Luke told the younger man sagely. "And it's actually pretty good," he admitted.

"I can't believe you've actually seen it." She couldn't really. She was going to have to adjust her image of small-town Texas sheriffs.

"Me, either, honestly," he said ruefully. "But it's one of Jo's favorites, so we watch it every once in a while."

"Your boys, too?" she asked, surprised.

"Well, Jo started them on it before they knew shows with girls as the main character weren't appropriately masculine for their viewing pleasure."

"And you?" she inquired. "What made you watch it?"

"Me?" He smiled, looked at her and away. "I was in love."

Again, Emily couldn't help herself. "Aw," she cooed.

"Shut up," he groused with a slanting grin.

"But _why_ do girls like guys that watch Anne of Green Gables?" Spencer asked insistently. He had insinuated himself slightly into the space between the two front seats.

Emily laughed, grinning over at her colleague. She opened her mouth to respond, but had a thought that changed what she was going to say. "What about Sam and Dean? Have they seen it?"

Luke gave her a considering look that almost made her blush. But he just shook his head. "Nah. We know those boys would die for Jo, but we haven't been willing to test the limits of their affection by suggesting they watch _Anne of Green Gables_." He paused. "Yet."

Emily laughed.

"No, really." Spencer again. "Why...?"

Emily's phone ringing cut Spencer off.

"Prentiss." She closed her eyes. "Yeah. No. I'll tell them." She hung up.

She took a second to rub a hand over her eyes. When she opened them, both men were looking at her.

"They found Amelia."

* * *

The body had been left not too far off the side of the road a couple of miles from where Kathleen Gonzalez's body had been dumped. The county mowing crew had found her.

Both FBI Suburbans were there when Luke pulled up. Prentiss and Reid were out of the Bronco before it had stopped rolling. Luke followed more slowly.

By the time he reached the huddle of agents around the body, Luke had convinced himself he was prepared for what he was going to see. He'd seen Kathleen Gonzalez's body, studied the pictures of other victims. And this certainly wasn't the first time in his years on the job that he'd encountered violent death or even the death of children he knew. He could do this.

Turned out he was wrong.

He couldn't stop the strangled sound that escaped at the tableau in front of him.

Amelia's naked body was splayed spread-eagle on the hard-baked earth, slashed across the abdomen and throat. Her mouth had been taped over, but under the metallic sheen of duct tape it was clear that her mouth was open in a scream. Her eyes were open, as well, face frozen in a rictus of the agony and terror she'd died in. There was a crude 8 marked on her forehead.

Luke bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. None of the agents said a word or moved.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. "Just..."

He felt a light touch on his shoulder. "Take your time," Emily said softly. Then the hand lifted and in his peripheral vision, Luke saw the team start to move around the scene.

Clenching his teeth against the bile that was threatening to rise, Luke breathed deeply through his nose. He gave himself until his stomach settled, blinking through the burn in his eyes, felt wetness slide across the bridge of his nose, watched it drip onto the grass he was staring at. He straightened.

His step forward was taken as an indication that he was back on the job. Four sets of eyes watched him, some with concern, others with a sharper assessment of his ability to participate in the investigation.

Reid was the one to address him, and the younger man did it carefully. "We need... we need you to help us with the connection to Kathleen Gonzalez," he said, surprisingly gentle. "We have the pictures of the way the body was laid out, but you actually saw her."

Luke nodded, wiping absently at the dampness on his cheeks.

"I know this is difficult," Agent Hotchner said. "But if you could help us look for similarities or inconsistencies, we'd appreciate it."

"I'll do what I can."

It was an unspeakable hour. Luke managed periods of detachment, minutes long stretches where he could focus on the case, where he didn't see the tortured body on the ground in front of him as the beautiful, vibrant little girl he'd watched grow up around town.

But he could never maintain it. And in those moments, the agents around him gave him space to collect himself before redirecting, asking another question that would, they hoped, help them find the monster that had done this.

"Preliminarily, I'd say she died last night sometime." Rob Jones had arrived not long before. He was grimfaced and pale, as shaken as Luke by the cruelty evident in Amelia's death. "I can be more precise once I've done the autopsy."

Agent Hotchner nodded. He looked at a couple of the crime scene guys. "I think we're ready to move her."

Luke watched as the two men moved up, shaking out a body bag, laying it on the ground next to Amelia. But, when they reached for her, Luke took a step forward.

"I'll do that," he said tightly, cleared his throat around the ache, but couldn't go on. It didn't seem right; that she would touched again by people who would just see her as a body, who didn't know her, who hadn't... He looked down at Amelia. She wasn't here anymore. He knew that. But after the desecration she'd suffered at the hands of a stranger, it seemed suddenly vital to Luke that even this shell that was left should be cared for by someone who had known her.

When his head came up, the two techs had stopped and turned to Agent Hotchner for guidance. The man gave Luke an expressionless look before glancing back at the dead girl. The softening of his face was subtle, but unmistakable, and when his eyes met Luke's, they were surprisingly compassionate.

"Of course." He looked now at Rob, who had stepped up next to Luke unnoticed. "We'll be here a while longer, but if you'd like to head back with her..." He held out a hand to Luke. "You've been a big help. Thank you."

Without speaking, Luke and Rob carefully loaded Amelia Santos into the morgue vehicle. Rob slammed the tailgate shut.

"You headed to the Santoses'?" he asked softly.

Closing his eyes, Luke nodded. "Yeah."

"I'll see if I can get her... if I can find a way to... to let them see her if they want."

"Let me know if you can't. I might be able to convince them..." he trailed off.

They shook hands.

"I'll see you in a bit," Rob said.

"Yeah."

Luke watched Rob drive off and knew he needed to get on the road right behind him. Knew that as soon as Rob was spotted, word would be out. Luke let out a shaky breath before he started up the car and, hands gripping the wheel at ten and two, bumped onto the blacktop.

* * *

All things considered, Dean thought Luke had been pretty calm when he'd returned to the kitchen after escorting the Feds out of the house. Dean had been braced for what counted as an "explosion" from the preternaturally even-keeled man.

"Can we, please," he'd asked wearily as he'd re-entered the room, "try to avoid contact with the FBI agents tomorrow? See if we can make it a _day_ without putting you boys directly into the path of people who could lock you away for the rest of all our natural lives?" He'd given Dean a surprisingly-mock stern glance. "Maybe?"

"Man, I'm sorry. We didn't...:

But Luke had waved him off. "I know. Jo told me what happened. I just..." He'd shaken his head, sighing. And Dean had seen the exhaustion that was weighing the man down.

Dean had opened his mouth to apologize again, when Luke suddenly smiled ruefully at him.

"Dean, it's not your fault. We're a small town. It's hard to avoid people. And y'all are working the same case the Feds are. I know you're being careful – you'll be careful. I do," he'd said reassuringly. "I'm just going to be really glad when this is over."

They'd all agreed and headed to their respective beds. Dean hadn't been able to stop the smile when he'd heard Jo start to scold Luke for being rude to the FBI as the couple'd started toward the front of the house.

When he and Sam had gotten up in the morning, Luke had already been gone. After a brief discussion, they'd decided that Sam would spend the morning researching and helping Jo out around the diner and hotel, while Dean would see what he could find out about this kid with the Mustang.

Dean pulled slowly into the converted filling station that was now Mac's Motor Repair, eyes narrowing as he spotted the red Mustang parked along the side of the building. The hood was raised and he could see the jean clad backside of someone leaning far over the motor. Carefully, Dean eased up next to the car, sliding the Impala into park. He got out of the car, slamming the door smartly.

The kid turned to look without extracting himself from the car, and Dean just nodded an acknowledgment before he moved past.

"Hey!" Mac Johnson stepped out from behind the counter and held out a hand. "I heard you boys were back in town," he said with a grin.

Dean shook his head, taken aback, as always, not only by how fast word spread in the small town, but that it spread about him.

"Yeah, we figured we were due for a stop," he said. "Thought I might change my girl's oil while we were here. You mind?" Mac never had before, fine with selling him the new oil and charging a small fee for disposal of the old.

"Course not," was the reply. He stepped back behind the counter, pulling what Dean was going to need off the shelf.

"Thanks." Dean dug out his wallet. "That's a pretty sweet little Mustang over on the side. One of yours?"

"Nope." Mac rang up the sale, and Dean handed over the appropriate number of bills. "Kid's driving across country and was having problems with the acceleration; asked if he could use a space to see what was what." The guy shrugged.

Dean shook his head. "You're an easy touch," he said.

Mac grimaced. Then said dryly, "You should know."

Dean threw back his head and laughed. "Yeah, I do. Thanks, man."

When he got back to the Impala, he opened the trunk, gathering his tools. Slamming it closed, he headed to the front of the car, popping the hood on his way. Leaning in, he loosened the oil filler cap before settling in on the ground, getting ready to slide under the car.

"You need something to catch the oil?"

The voice startled Dean and when he twisted around, the kid with the Mustang had emerged from under his hood and was holding out a battered metal pan.

"Shit. Yeah, thanks." He reached out for the offering. "Nice ride," he said, with an appreciative glance at the car next to him.

"Thanks!" The boy flushed with pride. He bit his lip as his eyes scanned the Impala. "She's a '67, right? Man, she's gorgeous."

"Thanks," Dean said, giving her a pat on the rear fender. He raised the pan at the kid. "Thanks for this." And with that he got to work.

When he was finished, Dean started the car, checking for drips. When he didn't see any, he left the car running while he gathered up his stuff, turned her off and took the used oil to the disposal spot Mac had.

He'd kept an eye on the kid as he'd worked, prepared to stop and engage the boy if he'd started to leave, but trusting in the silent camaraderie of working next to a guy on a car you loved to give him an opening. As he approached the car on the way back from the station, Dean was rewarded for his patience.

"How long have you had her?" The kid was wiping his hands on a cloth, ready for a break with someone who would talk engines with him.

Dean leaned against the Impala, crossing he legs at the ankles. "My dad bought her before I was born, but he gave her to me when I turned 18."

"No kidding. That's awesome. Did you work on her the whole time you were growing up?" He breathed, "cool" at Dean's nod.

"How 'bout you? When did you get yours?"

"'bout a year ago. My uncle helped me find her and restore her."

Dean tilted his head toward his own car. "I pretty much rebuilt her not too long ago. What all did you do?"

That got the kid off and running, and Dean shifted his stance, moving forward to follow the kid – Gabe – around the Mustang as he excitedly told Dean every step of the process.

When they got to the interior of the car, Gabe paused. "There was body in the car when they found it," he said.

Dean did a double-take. "What?"

The kid grimaced. "Yeah. Weird, huh? The owner said it had been in an old junk yard. They were cleaning out the property and found this skeleton in the back seat when they uncovered the car."

"Dude, that's creepy." _Holy crap._

The kid shrugged a little uneasily. "I think that's why I got her so cheap. The guy probably thought the freaks would come out of the woodwork to buy the car, right? But I guess it didn't happen. Anyway. I mean. It's too bad for the guy that died, but it's not like I believe in ghosts or anything, so..." He trailed off. Embarrassed, Dean thought. Maybe afraid of being thought less of.

"Yeah," Dean said. He paused himself. "But I'm guessing you replaced the seat?" He gave Gabe a quick smile, reaching for the handle of the driver's door and swinging it open.

"Hell, yeah, we did," the kid said with a laugh.

Dean eased into the seat, twisting around to take in the whole car. It all looked new.

Gabe had stepped up to rest one hand on the roof of the car and the other on the door. He bent over slightly. "We pretty much tore out the whole interior. Took longer to find everything, but... I don't know. Me and Uncle Pete just..."

"Makes sense to me." _What would that leave for a ghost to latch onto? The frame? Any parts that hadn't been replaced?_ Dean turned to peer up at the boy. "What did they do with the body?"

The kid gave him a weirded out look. "How the hell would I know?"

"I dunno," Dean shrugged. "Just wondering." He swung his legs out of the car, but stayed seated. "So where'd you pick her up? Or did you luck out at place close to home?"

"Bought her at a place outside Fayetteville, Arkansas. I'm from Missouri, so it was easy enough to drive down."

_ Huh. _

Dean scanned the door jamb next to him. There it was. Dean leaned close running a finger over the data plate. "This the original?" he asked.

"Yeah." Gabe smiled. "We used it to match the trim style and color. She was so rusted we weren't sure exactly what her original color had been."

"The red is sweet," Dean said. He squinted at the VIN. _6R07A100003._ Dean took a minute, looking around like he was continuing to appreciate the car as he committed the number to memory.

"Well." Dean pushed himself up and out. "She's a beauty." He patted the roof of the car. "Good luck getting her runnin' again."

The kid grimaced. "Thanks. I think I've about got it."

Dean smiled tightly in return. _We'll have to see about that._


	8. Chapter 8

About the time Dean had gotten back to the house after his conversation with Gabe, word had arrived that Amelia's body had been found. So, instead of being able to jump straight into an investigation of the history of the car and the kid, the Winchesters had been pressed into service at the motel while Jo and the boys and most of the staff had gone to pay their respects to the family.

Sam had kept his laptop open behind the counter, trying to do research while they worked, but the combination of lunch business and what turned into an informal gathering of people who didn't know the Santoses well enough to go by the house kept them busy to the point that Sam hadn't been able to get very far.

The Sweeds, minus Luke, had arrived home fairly late in the afternoon, and Jo had shut down the diner and turned on the "No Vacancy" sign so they could all eat together. For once, it was an almost silent meal. Michael had arrived a couple of hours earlier, and Tommy had attached himself to his brother immediately.

"Michael, honey?" Dinner was finished and the dishes dealt with. Jo had been opening and closing cabinets as well as the refrigerator while the boys worked around her. She scribbled one last thing on the list she'd been making. "I told Gretchen I'd take care of dinner for the Santoses tomorrow, and I want to make a couple of things that can be frozen. Will you run to the store for me? Tommy, you want to go with Michael?" Both boys nodded, Michael reaching for the list and the money Jo held out to him.

"Jake, you can go, too, if you want. Or I could use some help with a last run-through at the motel. You want to give me a hand with that?"

"I'll help you," Jake said softly.

"Thanks, sweetie."

After Michael and Tommy left, Jake mumbled something about brushing his teeth and slid out of the room.

Jo gave a shaky sigh and rested a hand briefly over her eyes.

"You OK?" Dean asked gently.

She shook her head with a wry smile as she looked at him, wiping quickly at her eyes.

"Dumb question," Dean muttered, embarrassed. "Sorry."

"No," she reassured him. "Sometimes it's the asking that's a comfort." She sighed again. "It's just so huge."

Dean nodded with an uncertain glance at Sam. This seemed like a hugging moment, but he was at a loss as to exactly how that might work. He reached out and patted her on the shoulder in a way that felt supremely awkward. At the simple contact, Jo's face crumpled, both hands coming up to cover her face.

Startled, Dean reacted without thought, stepping forward out of pure instinct and pulling her close when she started to cry.

"Hey, hey. 's OK, 's OK." His eyes went desperately to Sam again. Sam, at least, had _some_ experience with this sort of thing Dean presumed. But his brother looked as nonplussed as Dean felt. Sam came closer, too, adding his own awkward pats to Dean's attempt to soothe.

It didn't take Jo long to get herself back under control. She cleared her throat, stepping away from the Winchesters to reach for a Kleenex. "Sorry." She blew her nose messily, once, then twice. Still sniffing, she dabbed at her eyes. "I just keep imagining what her parents must be going through. And I..." Her voice broke and she shook her head. She threw the tissue in the trash and pulled another one out of the box.

"Mom?" Jake had returned and was eyeing his aunt uncertainly.

"You ready, sweetheart?" Jo asked, applying the Kleenex to her nose again, not answering the unspoken question from her nephew.

His eyes didn't leave her face, but he just answered, "Yeah."

"You need any help?" Sam asked. "We..."

Jo smiled a little weakly at him. "Thanks, honey, but I think Jake and I can handle it." She turned to Jake. "Right, baby?"

The boy nodded and leaned into his aunt as she put an arm around him, shepherding him out the door.

Left on their own, Dean and Sam had set up shop in the family room, Sam on the laptop, while Dean flipped through channels.

After about an hour, Dean said, "You know, Gabe said he thought he was almost finished with the car. If he gets it running and takes off, we'll lose him."

Sam turned to look. "What are you thinking?"

"Maybe I could take the EMF, check out the car, engage in a little sabotage... Make sure he doesn't go anywhere."

Sam glanced at his computer screen. "I think I'm onto something here. I don't want to stop..."

Dean was already on his feet. "Don't then. I got this."

"You sure? Give me thirty more minutes and I'll..."

"Nah. By the time I get to town it'll be dark enough I won't attract any attention."

"Yeah, OK." His attention was already back on what he was doing, lip caught between his teeth, brow furrowed.

Dean couldn't help himself. "Dork," he grinned.

Sam didn't dignify that with a reply.

* * *

It wasn't quite dark when Dean got to the shop, so he cruised on by, peering into the gloom as he passed, not seeing any sign of activity. On his drive in, Dean had had a momentary fear that he'd be too late and that the car would be gone, but the Mustang had been in its same space as he'd approached the shop. Relieved, he cut off the lights, rolling up around back. The clutter and overgrowth at the rear of the surprisingly large lot provided enough cover that he felt comfortable sliding down in his seat to wait for night to fall more completely.

When it was sufficiently dark, Dean slid out of the car and made his way quickly to the side of the building. The Mustang was unlocked, and Dean carefully opened the door to slip into the driver's seat. He pulled the door shut behind him quietly, wanting to muffle any potential reaction from the EMF. Twisting in the seat, Dean held out the little machine, also wrapped in an old t-shirt for sound suppression, and switched it on.

Nothing.

Or mostly nothing. There was a brief flash of the lights and an almost inaudible squawk, but the gadget subsided quickly.

_ Damn it. _

Dean turned the EMF off and removed the t-shirt. He made some adjustments to the knobs, turned it on again. The squeal was definitely more pronounced this time. He extended the machine over into the back seat again, and the flickering lights dimmed.

_ Huh. _

He brought the gadget back toward him to re-adjust the settings another time, and the EMF sparked to life again as it crossed into the front seat. Eyebrow lifting Dean held it out into the passenger's side of the bench and the activity died down. He brought it into his body and the lights flashed. Dean shifted uncomfortably, then scooted into the passenger seat. He waved the EMF over the steering wheel and the bench where he'd been sitting and got an even stronger reaction.

It was nothing, though, compared to what they'd seen when they'd used the EMF with the earlier body.

Dean bit his lip, considering his options. Breaking into the morgue to see how the EMF reacted to Amelia's body seemed like a remarkably bad idea at the moment. Maybe a visit to the crime scene? Risky, too, he knew.

But surely a quick drive-by couldn't hurt.

* * *

Dean had a general idea of where Amelia's body had been left. Several people in the diner had mentioned the stretch of county road where she'd been found. She'd been found by the mowing crew, but she hadn't been in the mowing path. The workers had been alerted by the carrion birds that had already begun to circle. Thinking it might be a deer that had been hit, they'd gone to investigate. They'd found Amelia instead.

Dean kept the lights on low as he crept along. Finally, he saw the flutter of the yellow police tape in the moonlight along with the collection of flowers and stuffed animals that had been left by the side of the road. He continued another half-mile before pulling the Impala to the side and behind a low copse of bushes.

It wasn't too bad a walk back to the site. Dean skirted the make-shift shrine and headed over the small hill that had hidden Amelia's body from the road. The moonlight had been enough to get him down the road, but as he left the pavement, he pulled out his flashlight and flipped it onto its dimmest setting.

There was another strip of yellow tape as he approached the site itself. This one circled the spot where he knew the body had been left. Before taking the EMF reader out, Dean made a careful circuit of the place where Amelia had been, setting the flashlight at a higher brightness as he scanned the ground.

As with the last dump site, there was very little blood – some on the straw-like grass, but only a trace on the hard-packed dirt Amelia had laid on. Dean was moving the flashlight from one spot of blood to another when a strange glint of a reflection caught his eye. Stepping gingerly over the tape, he squatted next to the gelatinous looking slime. He poked at it curiously with the flashlight.

_ Protoplasm?  _ he wondered, thinking he recognized the substance. _That can't be good._

He set the flashlight down and fished around his duffel for the EMF reader. Finding it and getting situated, Dean held it down close to the goo and flipped the switch.

The resulting shriek knocked him out of his crouch and onto his butt.

_ Holy ... _

"FBI! Freeze!"

... _crap._

* * *

The sheriff had left for home not long after Deputy Rodriguez had returned from a late dinner. He'd taken Reid and Prentiss with him, the two younger agents planning on working from the motel for awhile before returning with the second Suburban. Four of them, five counting whichever local officer was on duty, got a little cramped in the close quarters of the sheriff's office.

When the phone call came, Hotch and Morgan had both been pouring over the materials the crime scene techs had gathered. There'd been a strange-looking gel that Morgan was peering at in its evidence jar. A sample had been sent to the lab, but it was something neither of the agents had encountered before.

"Sheriff's office. Deputy Rodriguez speaking."

The man paused, letting the caller speak, face drawing into a thunderous-looking scowl.

"Are you there right now?" He listened again. "Yeah. No. Keep going. Thanks for letting us know. I'll take care of it."

He was standing even as he replaced the receiver. "Someone's out where Amelia's body was found," he said tightly. "Probably kids, but I'm going to go put the fear of _God_ into those ... " He didn't finish the thought, slamming the desk drawer shut and striding angrily toward the door.

Hotch and Morgan were already on their feet. "We'll go with you," Hotch said. Maybe it was sightseers. But maybe it wasn't.

"Suit yourselves," the deputy said grimly, yanking his hat off the rack.

The drive was silent and fast. As they approached, Rodriguez dimmed the headlights, though he didn't slow appreciably. The moon was almost full, but Hotch was in complete agreement with Morgan's slightly concerned glance toward the deputy.

"I've been driving this stretch of road since I was sixteen," the man said, face composed and eyes fixed on the ribbon of pale pavement stretching out ahead of them. "Don't worry."

There was nothing to do but hold on and hope that the deputy's skill was a good as he thought it was.

When Rodriguez finally did take his foot off the gas, he pointed out the front windshield. "There."

Squinting, Hotch saw the dump site approaching on the right, faint outlines of crosses marking the spot. When he looked past it, away from the road, he could see the glow of a flashlight over the rise.

"You got it?" Morgan asked.

Hotch nodded. "Yeah."

The deputy brought the cruiser to a halt a few yards from the collection of memorabilia.

All three men eased out of the car, closing doors carefully, unholstering weapons at the same time.

"This way." Rodriguez moved ahead of them, slipping through the dried undergrowth with a surprising degree of stealth. Hotch barely heard the rustle of brittle branches as he followed after the other man, Morgan slightly behind him.

The glow from the flashlight whoever was out there was using bobbed just over the crest of the hill. There was no sound of voices, no nervous chattering or even the buzz of subdued whispering one might expect from a group of thrill-seeking teenagers. Hotch was starting to think it might be just one person. And if that was true, it was probably their unsub. He looked back at Morgan.

Morgan caught the look and gave a nod.

_ Good. _

They all slowed as they reached the top of the rise. Rodriguez crouched lower before peering carefully over the scrub to see what they were walking into.

But before the man could get a good look, a mechanical squeal rang through the stillness and after exchanging startled glances, Hotch and Morgan sprinted the last few yards over the hill, the deputy hot on their heels.

"FBI!" Morgan barked.

All three men pointed their weapons at the man sprawled awkwardly on the ground.

"Freeze!"


	9. Chapter 9

"Don't move!" Morgan yelled, sliding awkwardly down the slight incline. When the man on the ground shifted, he said it again. "I _said_ don't move!"

The struggling stilled, even as hands went into the air. "It's cool, man. It's cool."

"Shut up," Morgan commanded, maintaining a steady bead center-chest.

Hotch approached quickly from the side and kicked at the strange-looking gadget that seemed to be emitting the nerve-jangling noise, knocking it out of reach of the man on the ground.

"On your belly," Hotch said, toeing the leg closest to him. "Now."

The man complied, still keeping his hands in plain sight.

"Hands behind you back."

Morgan holstered his weapon and removed his cuffs. "Gun," Morgan said shortly, removing it from the waistband of the suspect before putting it in his own and cuffing him. He yanked the man to his feet, then started to pat him down briskly.

Hotch picked up the still shrieking machine.

"What the hell?" Morgan asked in annoyance, tossing a boot-knife a couple of feet away.

"I don't know," Hotch said, turning the little... Walkman?... over in his hands.

"There's a switch at the top," said their prisoner. He angled his chin in the general direction.

Squinting in the dim light of the grounded flashlight, Hotch finally managed to turn it off. His ears rang in the silence.

Morgan spun the guy around, and Hotch saw the deputy's eyes widen, mouth opening like he was going to speak.

"What the hell, dude?" the suspect asked, apparently angry now, jerking his elbow out of Morgan's grasp and cutting across whatever Rodriguez might have said.

Roughly Morgan reclaimed the man's arm. "What are you doing out here? This is a crime scene." He took the opportunity to divest the man of his wallet and lobbed it at Hotch.

Rodriguez didn't try to speak again, stepping forward and picking up the fallen flashlight and the duffle, which clanked when it moved.

"A crime scene?" The man looked around him like he was surprised. "Dude. I had no idea."

"Right," Morgan said sarcastically. "What's your name?"

There was a slight hesitation before the suspect opened his mouth to reply, but Hotch beat him to it.

"Dean Winchester." Hotch hadn't even opened the billfold. It just suddenly clicked.

The man blinked, mouth snapping shut as he turned his attention to Hotch.

Hotch narrowed his eyes at him. "You're supposed to be dead," he said steadily.

* * *

When his phone rang, Luke groaned, slapping at the bedside table, trying to put his hand on the annoying gadget and make it stop. Next to him, Jo grumbled in her sleep. When he found the phone, he brought it to his ear.

"Yeah," he mumbled.

"Sheriff?" It was barely a reedy whisper; fear laced through the thin voice.

Luke scrubbed an exhausted hand over his face. "Hey, Miss Book," he sighed. "You all right, ma'am?"

In retrospect, it was a minor miracle she hadn't called before now.

"I think there's someone outside the house," she said breathily. "I'm so sorry. I..."

"No, no," he reassured her. A couple of hours of sleep was better than nothing, he guessed. "You were right to call." He was already easing out of bed. "Sit tight. I'm on my way."

"Hon?" Jo was starting to rouse, rolling toward him with a sleepy squint.

"Miss Book," he told her softly. "She thinks she hears someone." He pulled on his pants and gave the clock a quick glance. "Go back to sleep."

"Mmmm." Jo stretched out on her stomach across his now empty side of the bed. "K."

With a smile, he kissed her lightly and slipped out of the house.

It would be tempting, he thought, as he drove, to dismiss the call as nothing more than the fearful imaginings of a timid old lady. This wasn't the first time he'd been called to Abigail Book's place to check through the bushes or closets because she thought she'd heard a noise. And given the poor woman's history, it likely wouldn't be the last.

But there was something insidious about this whole situation, and Luke found himself mentally flipping through the images of the victims he'd seen in that first session with the FBI. If the unsub went after confident, assertive women, Abigail Book did not fit the victim-type. But the pattern had already changed. Would that trait be one that might vary as well? Were there any women among the dead who would – even superficially – be similar enough to a petite, white-headed, 84-year-old woman to warrant the attention of the killer? It seemed unlikely, but Luke couldn't get rid of the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He pressed his foot more firmly on the gas pedal, speeding the car toward Abigail Book's.

* * *

Winchester had been surprisingly quiet on the ride back to town. Hotch hadn't read the full file on Dean Winchester, but he'd long ago made it a habit to read the basics on anyone who hit the most-wanted list. And the description of this particular man – sociopath with religiously-grounded delusions and megalomaniac tendencies – didn't fit with the silent, subtly anxious demeanor of the prisoner sitting next to him.

And oddly, that nervousness seemed mostly fixed on the young deputy sitting in the driver's seat.

Rodriguez hadn't said more than a couple of words since they'd captured Winchester. His eyes had followed the man closely, shifting occasionally to Morgan or Hotch as they talked, but mostly focused on the suspect. Winchester himself hadn't looked at the kid at all until they'd gotten in the car. But now his gaze strayed constantly to the back of the dark head in front of him.

Hotch wasn't sure what the significance of that might be, but he filed it away for future reference.

"I got him." Rodriguez hadn't gotten out of the cruiser immediately when he'd pulled up in front of the sheriff's office, just sat for a second before he eased from the car. Now, he opened the door behind him and guided Winchester out, one hand resting briefly on the man's head to make sure he didn't knock it on the frame.

Morgan went around the front of the car.

"I'll take him from here," he said.

There was a brief tug-of-war before Rodriguez relinquished the prisoner to Morgan with a fleeting scowl.

"I'll call Luke," Rodriguez said, leading the way into the building.

Winchester stumbled at that, and Morgan gave him a slight shove to keep him moving.

As they entered the office, Hotch pulled out his phone.

She answered on the second ring. "Prentiss."

"It's Hotch. I want you and Reid in Midland to walk the evidence through the lab there. If you leave now, you can be there before they open in the morning. Actually. See if you can get someone to meet you there. I want everything we can get ASAP."

"Uh, sure," Emily agreed. "Has something come up?"

"Maybe. We caught someone out at the dump site, and I want to have our ducks in a row when we question him."

"You think it's our unsub?" Emily asked, surprised.

"I think that's a possibility."

"OK. We're on it."

Hotch disconnected.

"Hey." Winchester had come to a stop before reaching the holding area. "Any chance I can get a snack or something before you put me in the pokey? I'm kinda hungry."

Morgan didn't respond with anything other than another insistent push in the direction he wanted Winchester to go. The self-assurance Winchester had exhibited at the crime scene seemed to be back. And it was an attitude from suspects that always pushed Morgan's buttons.

"Careful, dude," Winchester chided him. "I just don't want to faint from hunger while you guys are asking me all those important questions I'm sure you have."

Morgan didn't comment, just steered him into the jail. Hotch heard the clank of the cell being shut and a last, "Oh come on, man, I'm starving!" from Winchester before the door into the office shut behind Morgan.

"Jo says Luke's on a call," Rodriguez said, hanging up his own phone. "Cell service is spotty in areas, but I was able to leave him a message."

Hotch nodded.

"How do you want to play this?" Morgan asked.

"Call Garcia and have her send whatever she can on Winchester. And his brother. If memory serves, he's got a younger brother who was reported dead along with Dean. If he's alive," Hotch tilted his head toward the holding cells, "chances are his brother – Sam, I think – is, too."

Morgan raised an eyebrow. "A sibling pair? That's unusual." He pulled out his cell and hit a speed dial number. While he waited for an answer, Morgan rubbed a weary hand over the top of his head. "Hey, baby girl. Yeah, yeah. I'm sorry..." He listened for a minute and a slow smile spread over his tired face. "Gorgeous, you know you don't need any beauty sleep in my book." He gave a snort and shook his head. "I need some files. They've probably been archived. You ready? OK. Dean Winchester and his brother, Sam, we think. Last name also Winchester. Yeah. Send 'em as soon as you can." He hung up and gave Hotch a look. "She's on it."

Hotch nodded again. "It's been awhile, but my memory is that Dean and his brother were raised by their father – mostly isolated and pretty much totally dependent on the dad." He frowned, trying to remember more. "The mother died when Dean was young, maybe a toddler. Depending on the circumstances of her death and what the father taught the boys about women, that may be a factor in these murders. The father was a person of interest in the mother's death, but I think it was eventually classified as an accident."

"He's not killing just mothers," Morgan said.

"No," Hotch agreed. "But if his father killed the mother and she was confident and smart like our victims, the father may have transferred his own rage and hatred of the mother to his sons, fostering a hatred of that type of woman generally."

"He's too young to have been the original killer," Morgan noted. "Any chance his father was the original and Dean's carrying on his work? Or do you think the brother's involved, as well?"

Hotch shrugged. Both good questions. "Could be."

"What about the old man himself? He still in the picture?"

"That I don't know," Hotch admitted. "I don't remember seeing anything about him in the briefing I read."

"OK. So how dowe want to do this?" Morgan reiterated.

"Let's let him sit for awhile," Hotch said. "I'd like to look at the more complete file before we question him."

* * *

Dean sank against the wall behind the spindly cot after he'd shouted his last request for food at the agent's back.

He scanned the walls and corners of the jail and didn't see any sign of cameras, so he gave himself a minute to rest his head in his still cuffed hands. Agent Morgan had been kind enough to re-cuff him in front once he'd gotten him in the cell. _Crapity crap crap crap._ This was so not good. After awhile, he sat back, clenching his hands into tight fists trying to still the trembling. He'd like to blame the reaction on adrenaline or low blood sugar, but he knew that was a lie. It had been a long time since he'd been this scared.

He closed his eyes. _Don't panic. You can figure a way out of this. You can fix this before you destroy not only your life and Sam's, but the Sweeds' as well._ He took a couple of breaths meant to steady himself. It didn't really work. _Please, God, let that be true_. And he wasn't sure if that was an actual prayer or not.

The cell next to him looked to be being used as a conference room. There were papers on a table that he figured must have been moved into the space, because it was definitely not jail furniture. The same could be said for the bulletin boards that had a couple of sheets draped over them to hide whatever had been taped to the white board underneath.

Dean pushed himself to his feet and took the three steps necessary to get him to the other side of his cell. He squinted and cocked his head to the side, trying to make out what was on the files spread haphazardly over the surface of the table.

"Back away from the bars." It was Matt.

Dean obeyed, eyes going to the door into the office, which was standing open.

The younger of the two feds came in next. "Step away," he said sharply.

The back of Dean's legs were already bumping up against the low bed. "Where am I going to go, man?" he asked, sarcastically. "I'm as far back as I can get."

The agent didn't respond, just opened the door to the other cell and began to gather up the materials Dean had been trying to get a look at. _Damn_.

"Here."

Dean turned to Matt, who was tossing him a package of peanut butter crackers through the bars. Dean caught the easy lob. "Thanks."

Matt was watching him expressionlessly. Then, "The sheriff's on a call, but he'll be here after that."

Dean swallowed, feeling a punch of apprehension hit him in the gut. He dropped his gaze and nodded. _Thanks_ , he thought, but didn't say.

"Deputy," the agent barked, clearly not happy with the fact that Matt had given him that information.

When Dean looked up again, Matt was gazing at the fed with a surprisingly innocent expression. "Oh. I'm sorry, Agent Morgan," he apologized, wide-eyed. "Should I not have told him that?"

Dean almost had a laugh startled out of him. Matt Rodriguez was anything but a country rube, but he was rocking the startled "doh!" expression as he blinked at Agent Morgan. Dean wouldn't have thought the kid had it in him. Or that he'd bring it out for Dean.

Dean stuffed three crackers in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

Morgan opened his mouth like he was going to berate the deputy about his slip.

"C'n I ha' s'm' wa'er?" Dean asked around the mass of peanut butter sticking to his palate, spewing crumbs and cutting off whatever the agent was going to say.

The glare leveled at him by Morgan combined with the flash of amusement and relief on Matt's face at the diversion, was worth the sticky feeling in his mouth after the agent strode from the room without answering.

* * *

If there'd actually been someone in the shrubs around Miss Book's windows, the person was gone by the time Luke arrived. He'd done his usual circuit of the house, but with more attention than he'd tended to give it in the past. There was nothing out of the ordinary that he could see, maybe more agitation of the earth outside the kitchen window, but no footprints or anything he could point to that would account for the increasingly uneasy feeling he was having.

He'd done his best to reassure the woman, making sure to check the inside of the house, as well.

"I'm so sorry to have wasted your time," Miss Book fretted. "I know you're busy with poor Amelia's death, but I really..."

Luke shook his head. "Miss Book, don't you worry about that." He hesitated for just a second. "Now, there's nothing for you to worry about, but I think I may just call Doug and have him check in on you over the next few hours. Would that be OK with you?"

Doug Seewald was a part-time deputy Luke called on from time to time. The county was never happy to pay for him, but given the circumstances, Luke decided it was past time to call in some extra help.

The relief on the older woman's face was heart-breaking. "Yes, yes. That would be OK with me."

Luke smiled. "Good. I'm going to have him do some patrolling around town, and I'll make sure he swings by here regularly."

"Thank you."

After he called Doug, Luke noticed the indication that he had a voicemail from Matt. Without listening to the message, Luke called his deputy.

"Hey."

"Hey. Did you get my message?"

"Got it, but didn't listen. Sorry. What's up?"

There was a brief pause. "You need to come in. We caught someone out at the body site." Matt's voice was stiff, going for "professional" in a way they generally weren't with each other.

Luke's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Someone on the FBI's most wanted list." Another pause. "Dean Winchester."

Luke felt his blood turn to ice.

"Evidently, he's a serial killer," Matt went on. "They think they've got their man." It was clear from the tone of the deputy's voice and what he was saying that the feds were in the proximity.

"Crap, Matt," Luke breathed. The ice had thawed and suddenly his heart was racing. "Just. Crap."

"Yeah," Matt said tightly. "I feel you."

"OK. OK. I'm on my way. Just..." He shook his head. "I'm on my way."

Luke was so caught up in his own, _Crapcrapcrapcrap!_ reaction, that it didn't occur to him to call Sam until he was almost at the office.

Sam was predictably less than pleased with the news.

"That _jackass_ ," Sam spat out once he'd recovered from the shock. "I swear to _God_ I'm gonna..."

"Yeah," Luke interrupted. _You're gonna have to get in line behind me, kiddo._ In the background he heard what sounded like drawers being opened and slammed shut. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Getting dressed," Sam _duhed_. "What do you think? I'm..."

"You're not coming in," Luke asserted. It was almost a question because surely...

"What? Yes! I'm..." He stopped. Luke let the boy take the time he needed to come down from the adrenaline rush of _must do something now_. Sam sighed heavily. "I mean, no. Of course not." Luke could hear the frustration and fear in the kid's voice.

"Did you know that he was going to look at the body site?" Luke asked.

"No," Sam huffed. "He told me he was going to go check out the Mustang again. Maybe disable it to keep the kid from leaving the area, if he needed to. I was right in the middle of something, and he didn't want to wait. I should have..." He didn't finish the thought.

"Look." Luke hated to say it, but, "I think maybe you need to get out of town. If they know it's Dean, it's not going to take them too long to realize you might be alive, too."

"Luke..."

"Sam. There's no reason..."

"No. They're going to know I'm here already. We watched _television_ with two of the agents just last night. You think once Prentiss and Reid find out that Dean's _Dean_ they're not going to make the connection with me?" He paused before he said unsteadily, "And you."

Luke closed his eyes. _Yeah._ He blew out a huff of air. "Yeah," he acknowledged, this time with his outside voice. "But how easy are we going to make it for them to take you into custody, too?"

"Luke..."

"Sam."

They were both frustrated and at a place where they were likely to start taking it out on each other.

"Look." Luke tried again into the silence that had fallen after his bitten off growl of Sam's name. "Let's just... Can you just make yourself scarce for a little while? Just until we can get a better handle on how the feds are going to react?"

"'How the feds are going to react'?" Sam repeated, bitterness and amusement warring in his tone. "I can _tell_ you how they're going to react," he said. "Not. Well."

Luke snorted a laugh. "What are you? Psychic?" he countered.

"No visions required for this one," Sam responded. "Just experience."

There was nothing to say to that, so Luke held his tongue.

"OK," Sam finally agreed heavily. "I've got some more research I can do elsewhere, I guess. There's that DQ in Romeria that's got wireless. I'll go first thing in the morning."

Luke nodded. "Thanks, kiddo." He'd been sitting in front of the office for the last couple of minutes. The door opened, and he could see Matt's outline in the entrance, waiting. "I gotta go." He held a finger up at his deputy, acknowledging his presence and asking for a second. The kid's head bobbed, and he moved back into the building. "Sam, I'm here, and I hate to ask you to do this, but could you catch Jo up on what's going on?"

There was a significant pause on the other end of the line.

"Dude. You so owe me," Sam said. "Big time."

Luke smiled. "Don't I know it." Something occurred to him. "Sam, tell her she's _not_ to come in," he added urgently. "I don't want her showing up here with Dean's favorite food." _Wouldn't that be perfect?_

That got a wan chuckle out of Sam. "I'll tell her." Sam hesitated and then said fiercely, "Luke, I'm not sitting this out, though, alright? If things go south, I'm coming in. I'm not going to let you and Jo and the boys..."

Luke wondered what the Winchesters would be planning if it wasn't for him and the rest of the family. A breakout, probably, and a quick dealing with the problem before they bugged out. He knew most of Sam's fear – and Dean's, too, he was sure – had little to do with their own personal safety. They were terrified of what they might leave behind this time.

"Hey." Luke held up a hand Sam couldn't see. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, OK? If worse comes to worst, we'll figure something out. I mean. We can always claim you desperate criminals have been brainwashing the lot of us all these years, right? They'd buy that, don't you think?"

Sam made an unsteady noise, cleared his throat. "Oh, yeah. That sounds like a winner, right there," he agreed. He sounded a little shaky, but Luke thought there might be a smile underneath.

"See?" said Luke. "We got us a plan already."


	10. Chapter 10

Hotch looked up when the door swung open. Sheriff Sweed's eyes went first to his deputy as he crossed the threshold, and the two men exchanged a long glance that communicated something Hotch knew he wasn't privy to. When the sheriff's attention shifted to the feds, he gave a tight smile.

"I hear you've got someone in custody," he offered.

"Yes," Hotch confirmed. "Dean Winchester. He was on the most wanted list, but fell off when there were reports that he'd been killed while in custody."

Sweed hung his hat on a peg near the door. He frowned as he made his was across the room to his desk. "What was he wanted for?" He looked again at Rodriguez. "Was he on the list for killings that are similar to what we have here?"

"No." Hotch had to admit that. "He was wanted for the murder of a couple of women in St. Louis and for some deaths that occurred in the course of a bank robbery."

Luke looked questioningly at Hotch. "I thought serial murderers stayed pretty faithful to a particular style of killing and type of victim."

Hotch nodded. "Generally they do. But we've already seen a shift in victim type. It's possible that there's been a stressor that's changed his MO."

"What about the original killings? He's not ..." The sheriff broke off. "How old is he?"

Hotch felt his brow wrinkle at the man's shift. "He's in his late 20s, I think, but it's possible that his father..."

Derek's phone rang, and Hotch was distracted by the purred, "Tell me you've got something, baby girl," from the other agent.

Morgan raised his eyes to Hotch, nodding with a grin. "You're the woman, Garcia. Yeah. Send 'em." He was already reaching for the laptop.

"She'll messenger the hard copies, but for now..." he clicked on a file and started reading.

Hotch knew his own computer was in the car. He turned toward the sheriff. "We just got the files on Winchester and his brother, Sam." Sweed's eyebrows went up. "He's got a younger brother who may be around. I'll forward the files to you, if you'd like to take a look at them. We want to be familiar with the prisoner's background before we question him further."

Sweed shot a look at his deputy. "Yeah. That would be great." His eyes wandered to the door leading into the cell.

Hotch figured the sheriff wanted to see the man they thought might have killed Amelia, but couldn't think of a reason to do so.

"We want to let him stew for a little longer," Hotch said to forestall a request to go in.

Sweed blinked, apparently startled out of a reverie. "Yeah. Sure." He looked at Rodriguez again. "Let's look at those files."

* * *

Sam decided against waking Jo to let her know that Dean had been apprehended. Instead, he finished getting dressed and carried the laptop out to the kitchen while he made coffee.

He'd gotten so caught up in trying to figure out a way into the appropriate records to trace the Mustang's VIN that he'd first lost track of time and then lost track of his brother. Sam mentally kicked himself for not following up with Dean. He'd noticed that Dean hadn't gotten home, but had thought his brother had probably stopped in at one of the local bars to grab a beer and play some pool. They weren't in the habit of checking in with each other as regularly when they were at the Sweeds. And with the FBI in the area that had been a mistake.

Jo would be up before dawn. Until she was, Sam settled in at the computer and got back to work.

"You're up early." Jo's voice was sleepy, but had a smile in it as she ran a hand over his hair. She kissed him lightly on the top of his head, and Sam closed his eyes. "Everything OK?" She made a humming noise of approval when she noticed the half-full coffee pot.

Sam didn't respond immediately, waiting until she'd filled her mug and joined him at the table. She propped her feet up on the chair opposite, toes gripping the edge, cradling her cup close while she eyed him.

"The FBI has Dean," he told her.

"What?" she asked. Sam was impressed that she managed not to spill her coffee considering how abruptly he'd said it. He could tell she was struggling to take the information in to her sleep-muddled brain.

"Evidently, he went out to ... where Amelia's body was found and the feds caught him. Luke knows and he's at the jail. I haven't heard anything in awhile..."

She'd paled as she'd listened, but she didn't say anything.

Sam continued. "They haven't made the connection with us yet, somehow. But they will. As soon as Prentiss and Reid realize what's going on, they're going to know."

Jo nodded like she was in a daze. "You need to be gone, Sam," she said shakily. "You can't be here when they figure that out."

Sam sighed. It went against everything in him to leave, especially when it meant Jo and Luke were going to be in such deep trouble because of them. But he also knew that he couldn't do anything to fix the mess they'd gotten the family into if both he and Dean were locked up. "I'm going to head to Romeria in a few minutes, just to get out of the way. But I'm not staying gone, Jo. We're not leaving y'all to deal with the fallout of this on your own."

Jo opened her mouth to respond, but closed it, smiling suddenly, if waveringly, when her eyes moved to the kitchen door.

"Hey, sleepyhead," she said.

Sam turned and saw Tommy shuffling forward.

The boy went to his aunt and submitted sleepily to a morning kiss. "You're up early," Jo said softly.

Tommy shrugged and moved toward Sam. Sam stroked a hand down the kid's back when he got close. "You have a bad dream, kiddo?" Sam asked.

Tommy nodded almost imperceptibly before unexpectedly hiking himself into Sam's lap. Exchanging a startled glance with Jo, Sam shifted and settled the boy more comfortably.

On a sigh, Tommy hooked an arm around Sam's neck, resting his cheek on Sam's shoulder. "'m hungry," he told Jo.

Sam could tell that Jo was struggling not to break down, even as she rose and threaded her fingers through Tommy's hair. "I see how you are," she said with mock-hurt. "Sam gets the cuddling so I can do the cooking."

"Excuse me," Sam said in injured tones. "This is not 'cuddling.' It's manly back slapping." For illustration he gave Tommy a couple of bracing slaps. He knew they stung some, but the boy giggled.

"Yeah, mom," he said, not raising his head from where it rested against Sam's chest. "Boys don't cuddle."

"Right," Jo drawled. With a smile at Sam, she opened the fridge. "What do want, baby?" she asked Tommy.

"Pancakes," Sam stage-whispered into Tommy's ear.

"Pancakes," Tommy echoed agreeably.

Jo got to work and a comfortable silence fell in the kitchen. Sam knew he needed to get going, but it was hard to imagine disentangling himself from the warm weight leaning into him. If the kid's bony butt was digging uncomfortably into Sam's thigh, he thought he could endure it for a little longer. At least until there was food on the table.

The thing was that Tommy had always been a tactile kind of kid. It had fascinated Sam when they'd first gotten to know the family, Tommy's constant willingness to touch and be touched. Sam hadn't known if it came from being the baby of the family or having just a maternal parent for so much of his life, but particularly when he'd been younger, Tommy had always been in someone's space, taking a hand or sitting close or barreling into whoever wasn't paying him the attention he wanted.

Sam hadn't been sure what to do with such exuberant, unembarrassed affection at first.

Because Sam wasn't a toucher. In spite of constantly being accused of touchy-feely tendencies by his brother, Sam didn't naturally reach for people – either to comfort or be comforted. Jess had teased him about it once they'd started dating. But it had been a point of misunderstanding early in their relationship, the fact that Sam didn't automatically hug or touch. He was a fast learner, though, and as soon as he'd realized that was going to be expected of him, Sam had done what he could to be what Jess needed in that area.

The thing was, being mostly raised by another only slightly older boy didn't really prepare one for being particularly physically affectionate in ways other than cuffs to the head or smarting slaps on the back. Those times as children when it had occurred to Sam that Dean might need comforting, his clumsy attempts had been rebuffed. Except in the most extreme circumstances.

Hugs and kisses were for babies, and Dean hadn't been a baby since he'd been four.

Tommy had gotten to be a "baby" far longer than Dean or even Sam had. But the last time the Winchesters had visited, it had been apparent that the boy had been growing up, and he'd been noticeably more restrained, pulling away when Jo tried to hug him, something Sam had never seen him do before. Jo had jokingly lamented the loss of her baby when it was just the adults, but Sam had known she'd been genuinely sad to have her youngest pass out of that unrestrained stage. Sam had missed it, too, frankly, but hadn't pressed, trying to respect Tommy's more "grown up" limits.

Unlike Dean. Who had taken great delight in deliberately stepping all over the new boundaries Tommy had set up around himself, going out of his way to wrap his arms around the kid whenever he could, hugging and even kissing Tommy until the boy had shrieked in affront. And glee. Because Dean, deny it all he might, was by far the more genuinely touchy-feely of the Winchesters.

This reversion to seeking out physical comfort from the people who loved him was understandable given what Tommy had been through the last few days. And Sam was surprisingly glad to be able to offer it. But, even so, it made Sam's heart ache to know how badly Tommy had been shaken.

Sam tightened his arms around the boy in his lap, pressing a kiss on the top of Tommy's head, before resting his chin over the same spot. He felt the deep shudder of a sigh run through the skinny body he was holding.

He thought unhappily of how Tommy was going to react when they told him that Dean was in custody.

"It's going to be OK," Sam whispered.

* * *

"Have you seen this?"

Agent Morgan's voice pulled Luke out of his study of Dean's file. It was odd—and frankly a little disturbing—to read the FBI perspective on Dean, even knowing the kid like he did. He could only imagine how it read to those who didn't know what Luke had come to know since the Winchesters had entered their lives.

"What?" Agent Hotchner looked up from his own reading.

"It's a 'confession,'" Morgan made quotey fingers on the word, "from Dean when the Winchesters were picked up for some murders in Baltimore."

"That wasn't them, though." Matt, bless him. He and Luke had been sharing a computer, exchanging glances and the occasional note as they went through the material.

"No," Derek admitted, "but the video is... interesting."

"Let's see it," Hotchner instructed. He moved toward where his agent was sitting at his laptop. With a tilt of his head, he invited Luke and Matt to join them.

The video started normally enough, one of the detectives telling Dean to state his name for the record. Dean did. And then continued.

"I'm an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach and frisky women."

Luke couldn't stop the frustrated huff of breath and disapproving shake of his head. This kid and his mouth. _Luke_ knew what the attitude covered, but to anyone who didn't know Dean it came across as flip and insulting. Which was probably the point on some levels, but...

"And I did _not_ kill anyone. But I know who did. Or rather what did."

Luke saw Agent Morgan glance at Hotchner out of the corner of his eye as Dean continued, weighing his boss's reaction.

"Course I can't be for sure because our investigation was interrupted. But our working theory is that we're looking for some kind of vengeful spirit."

From off-camera, what sounded like a woman's voice said, "Excuse me?"

Dean looked in the direction of the questioner. "You know. Casper, the blood-thirsty ghost?"

Hotchner reached over Morgan's shoulder and paused the video.

"A ghost?" The man's eyebrow rose. "Investigation?"

Morgan nodded. "And notice the 'our.' Sam was in custody as well, so whatever is going on, Sam seems to have been involved."

Luke thought he was getting better able to read Agent Hotchner, realizing that the current expressionless expression was the man's version of a thoughtful frown.

Morgan started the video up again.

For the next minute or so, Dean calmly explained where he and Sam were in their own investigation—confused ghosts and anagrams.

The detective conducting the interview had not been receptive.

"You arrogant bastard. Tony and Karen were good people. And you're making jokes!"

"I'm not joking, Ponch."

The detective moved aggressively into the frame. "You murdered them in cold blood, just like that girl in St. Louis!"

"Oh, yeah. That wasn't me either." Dean had switched his attention from the angry detective back to the camera. "That was a shape-shifter creature that only looked like me." Here Dean gave a brief, regrettably smug-looking grin. Luke rubbed a hand over his face.

At this point, the detective grabbed Dean by the shirt and jerked him out of the chair, shoving him hard against the wall. Luke was unable to stop the flinch forward, as if he were going to intervene in the video.

"Pete, that is enough!" A woman, Luke guessed the earlier female questioner, and obviously another detective, entered the scene.

"You asked for the truth." Dean's fairly restrained comment to the male detective pinning him to the wall was just barely audible.

"Lock his ass up." The detective pushed violently away from Dean, and the tape ended abruptly.

Neither of the feds said anything immediately.

Agent Hotchner turned away from the computer and went back to the desk he'd taken over. He flipped through his notes for a moment.

"Henriksen mentions the interview, but he doesn't seem to think Dean actually believes what he says." Hotchner looked at Morgan.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Yeah." He frowned. "Did you read the interview with Rebecca Warren, one of the victims in St. Louis?"

Hotchner nodded, but didn't comment, just watched Morgan.

"She's pretty insistent that Dean wasn't the one that hurt her. Or the other women for that matter. Yeah, she said, the guy _looked_ like Dean Winchester, but it _wasn't_ him." He shot a wry glance at his boss. "Though, she certainly doesn't mention any shape-shifting creature."

Luke couldn't figure out if the agents were actually willing to consider the truth of what Dean had said on the tape.

"Well, it's obvious that whoever they buried as Dean Winchester wasn't Dean Winchester."

Agent Morgan inclined his head in acknowledgment of that.

"And, of course, it turned out that this detective, Peter Sheridan, was the one they tagged with the crimes the Winchesters were arrested for in Baltimore."

"Maybe he's truly delusional," Hotchner said. "And he thinks he's helping people, saving them from ghosts."

Morgan shrugged. "Which wouldn't explain why he was out at our crime scene."

"There's a ghost killing these girls?" Agent Hotchner it offered with only the slightest twitch of his lips to suggest he was joking.

Morgan grinned in response. "Right."

* * *

Winchester startled out of a doze as they walked into the holding area. The prisoner was making a point not to rise, instead stretching languidly and putting his hands behind his head as he crossed his ankles.

"Mornin' boys," he drawled. "I didn't get my wake up call."

Hotch didn't react, observing the man blandly as he approached.

Behind him, Morgan, Hotch knew, was having a different response and could see in his mind's eye the younger agent's mouth draw down in annoyance.

Winchester's eyes strayed to the door as it clicked shut behind Derek. He met Hotch's gaze almost insolently. "Breakfast?" he asked.

Hotch ignored him, entering the other cell and pushing the battered table they'd brought in earlier closer to the bars of Winchester's cell. He set the tablet he'd been using to take notes onto the surface before pulling up a chair. Morgan didn't sit, choosing instead to lean a shoulder up against the wall.

Winchester turned his head toward the agents, but still didn't rise.

Hotch had known from his reading of the file that Dean had a real issue with authority. The video they'd just watched had only confirmed that. Even as it had provided other new areas of information.

Henriksen had had a lot of theories as to the reasons behind Dean's attitude and had described a couple of confrontations with the man where it was clear to Hotch that the other agent's method of interrogation had only succeeded in locking Dean down rather than making any progress toward getting past the man's defenses.

Instead of coming at Dean head on, Hotch decided to take a more conciliatory approach.

"What were you doing at the crime scene, Dean?" he asked. He modulated his voice so that it was curious, rather than confrontational.

Winchester shrugged, looking away from Hotch and up at the ceiling. "Saw the flowers and decided to stop."

"Do you stop regularly at roadside shrines?" Hotch asked, letting a note of disbelief color his tone.

Winchester shrugged again. "I was getting sleepy. Needed a break."

"So you didn't know a murdered girl had been dumped there?"

"How the hell would I know that?"

"Why'd you make a point of trying to hide your presence then?"

"What? I didn't."

"Your car wasn't parked close by."

"I didn't decide to stop until I was down the road. Thought the walk might help wake me up."

"Mmm." Hotch didn't say anything more for awhile, studying the man in the other cell openly.

In the silence, Dean turned to look at him again, frowning slightly. When Hotch kept his gaze on him steadily, Winchester shifted uneasily and rose to a sitting position, swinging his legs off the cot. He put his elbows on his knees and dropped his eyes to the floor at his feet.

Hotch let the quiet stretch a little bit longer before he said. "Where were you night before last?"

"Fort Worth," Dean said without missing a beat.

"You got anyone who can confirm that?"

When Winchester's gaze came up, he had an obnoxious smirk on his face. "I do, but unfortunately, I didn't get her number."

"Give me a description and a location and we'll see what we can find," Hotch said, not otherwise responding to the leer.

"Knock out. Tall. Long, dark hair. Brown eyes, fair skin. Built, but in an athletic way, if you know what I mean." Here he waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Morgan, who kept his face as blank as his boss's. "Legs up to here," he added with a grin.

"Where'd you meet her?"

The shrug was back. "How the hell am I supposed to know? Some roadside bar."

"You get a name?" Morgan asked dryly and without much hope.

Winchester appeared to think about this. Finally, he said, "Nah."

"And before that?" Hotch asked. "Where were you before Fort Worth?"

"Around."

"Around where?"

Winchester rolled his eyes. " _Around._ Oklahoma City. Tulsa. Nashville."

"You got anything that can prove that?" Morgan asked. When Dean opened his mouth with another smirk, Derek cut him off. "Besides a string of nameless one-night stands?"

There was contempt in Derek's tone, and Hotch saw the barb hit its mark before Dean managed to paste a careless expression on his face. "Other than a bunch of satisfied ladies? No."

"Where's Sam?"

The smug look disappeared, replaced by wariness. "Who?"

"Your brother, Dean. We know he goes where you go." Hotch again kept his tone casual, not accusing or challenging.

"He's dead."

Hotch let an eyebrow raise. "Like you're dead?"

"He died in the helicopter explosion." Winchester's face was stone.

"Like you?" Again.

The man didn't respond. Just continued to stare tightly at Hotch.

"I find that hard to believe," Morgan said.

"I don't give a shit what you believe." It was the first hint of true emotion they'd seen.

"So how'd that happen?" Hotched asked, inserting himself smoothly back into the exchange. "You alive and your brother dead?"

Winchester's eyes came back to Hotch, hard, and with an underlying aggression that hadn't been there before.

"They'd loaded Sam, but not me when it went up."

"The agents on site reported both of you dead."

Hotch let the statement hang, watching the prisoner with the expression Hotch used to make sure people understood he was expecting an explanation. Winchester didn't provide one, met Hotch's stare almost belligerently. He didn't speak or shift uncomfortably the way he had earlier in the silence.

Hotch obviously didn't believe Dean any more than Derek did, but for the moment he was willing to let the issue of Sam slide. He nodded. "OK."

Winchester's glare seemed a pretty clear indication that this particular interview wasn't going to progress any further at this point, so Hotch stood, picking up his notes. He caught Derek's eye and the younger agent nodded, heading out.

Hotch turned to follow.

As the door swung shut behind them, he heard Winchester call, "Dude, seriously. What's a guy gotta do to get fed around here?"


	11. Chapter 11

When the door opened again, Dean sat up slowly, bracing himself for the next round of questioning. When he saw it was Luke, he schooled his features carefully, not reacting even as his eyes slid past the older man, looking to see who was going to join him.

No one it turned out.

"So. I'm trying to decide how the feds would react if they came back to your strangled corpse on the cot," Luke said conversationally.

Dean winced, even as he let out the breath he'd been holding until he'd realized Luke was alone. "Man, I..."

Through the bars Luke handed Dean a cup of blessed coffee and a bag that was emitting an odor Dean imagined heaven must smell something like. Luke shook his head. "No, don't, Dean. I'm sorry. It's... You know, it's done. Let's just deal with what we have."

He looked exhausted and older than Dean knew he should.

"Luke..."

"Besides," Luke spoke over him. "Sam and I already have a plan."

Resigned for the moment to not being able to say what he wanted to, Dean took a long pull at his coffee and dumped the contents of the paper sack onto the bed. _Tacos._

Luke hadn't continued, so Dean gave him a questioning look, unwrapping the tinfoil around his first taco. He put a bigger bite into his mouth than he probably should have and couldn't speak around the mouthful of tortilla and potato and egg and cheese and _sweet God in heaven_ bacon.

"You've brainwashed us all," Luke said evenly. He seemed to have purposefully waited until Dean had a full mouth.

Dean almost – _almost_ – spit his breakfast out all over the cell.

Luke was nodding as if this was the most sensible thing in the world.

Dean managed to swallow the bite he'd about lost. "OK." He considered that as an option. "I think there may be some flaws in that as a plan A."

Luke grinned. He looked a little manic.

Dean felt a sharp twist in his gut. "Luke, I'm really sorry," he said.

Luke's smile dimmed. "I know you are, kiddo," he sighed. He ran a hand over his head, then gave Dean a look that seemed, oddly, to be an attempt at being encouraging. "Something will work out," he said. "Don't worry."

Dean swallowed. Cleared his throat. "I'd feel a lot better if you'd call me an idiot or bawl me out for being a moron," he gruffed. "Maybe both."

"Yeah?" Luke's smile was easier now. "Idjit," he said in a dead-on imitation of Bobby Singer.

Dean snorted.

"The FBI's gone back to the hotel for some food. Maybe get some shut-eye. Although, who knows. I'm not sure they actually sleep. Especially that guy, Hotchner." Luke went into the other cell and pulled up the chair.

"Like vampires," Dean said.

Luke's eyes widened. "For real?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Where's Sam?" He'd finished his first taco and started in on the second.

Luke gave a huff annoyance. Whether it was at him or Sam, Dean wasn't sure. "Romeria. Not sure how long that will last, but for now he's not here."

Dean nodded. "They were asking about him. I said he was dead." He'd made quick work of his second taco and after unwrapping the third, wadded up the tinfoil the tacos had come in. "It's all going to be pointless once Reid and Prentiss get in on this." He took a bite of his last taco, spoke around it. "Where are they anyway? I've been expecting them to bust in any minute."

"Midland." Luke held out his hand. Dean squinted, trying to gauge whether he could get the ball of trash through the bars. Threw. Got up to fetch it when it bounced off one of the bars into the corner of the cell. "They're following up on evidence at the lab. I'm guessing they'll be back early to mid-afternoon."

Dean returned to the bed with his trash and, sitting back down, tried the throw again. Missed again. He got up. "You think none of them'll be back until then?"

Luke shrugged. "Don't have any idea. Matty's keeping an eye out for now. We figure we play cooperative local law enforcement until the jig is up." He shook his head. "And then..."

Staying standing this time, Dean took aim and lobbed the ball. It sailed between two of the bars without touching either one. Luke caught it.

Dean sat back down on the cot. "Then what?" he asked quietly when the older man didn't go on. "Luke. Man, seriously. What then?"

Luke didn't have an answer for him.

* * *

Sam had left after breakfast.

Jo had broken the news of Dean's arrest to the boys only when Tommy had asked somewhat absently where he was.

Tommy's concern had been all about Dean, childish indignation at the unfairness of the FBI and worry over whether Dean would be OK. Though there'd also been a kind of awed fascination at the idea of spending a night in the jail.

Michael and Jake, though... Sam had seen the older boys' recognition of the larger danger. They'd been worried about Dean, of course. But the anxiousness in their eyes as they'd exchanged glances and watched their aunt had told Sam that the boys were well aware of the potential ramifications to the family beyond just what might happen to Dean and Sam.

It had made Sam's stomach ache sharply.

The night before, Sam had stopped his research when he'd realized he wasn't making any progress, knowing from experience that some space and sleep often helped him find new avenues to pursue in a case. He just hoped this electric current of desperation he felt thrumming through his nerves didn't set him back too far. There was nothing like a sense of urgency or a deadline to short-circuit his brain. Especially when his brother was involved.

Sam found a table at the back of the Dairy Queen and got himself settled. There were a couple of other people there for the wireless, it looked like, a young mother with a sleeping baby in a carrier, smiling and laughing softly occasionally while she read through her email, and a guy close to Sam's own age, typing seriously away on what Sam was sure must be a novel. He had that air about him.

After a couple of hours, Sam took a break, ordering a Blizzard and some fries. He pushed the computer slightly to the side and spent some time looking through the notes he'd jotted down as he'd worked.

Sam dug out a big bite of ice cream and flipped back a couple of pages to skim down the page. _Wait._ The spoon jittered, clamped between his lips as he pulled the computer closer again, looked back at his notebook. He turned the page back again. _Huh._

He exchanged the spoon for a few fries and got back to work.

* * *

Reid was reading through the autopsy report while Emily drove.

"Dr. Jones was right on in terms of time of death," he said thoughtfully. The local doctor had just gotten started on the post-mortem examination when Hotch had made the decision to send the body to the FBI lab. He'd just made a preliminary estimation on when Amelia had been killed. "They've got it between midnight and one a.m."

"The creep worked fast this time," Emily said tightly. Up until now there had been several days between when the women had been taken and when they'd been found.

Reid frowned and skipped past a few pages. "But he was still thorough. The cause of death and the post-mortem mutilations are the same." He stopped at one of the photos, squinted slightly. "Tat may be a little more sloppily done, but..."

Emily nodded, taking another sip of her fifth cup of coffee of the day. Damn, she was tired. They'd gotten to the federal building in Midland around 5 that morning, and after a hastily eaten breakfast with an unlimited supply of caffeine, they'd tracked down the M.E. who was scheduled to do the more thorough autopsy on Amelia Santos. The woman had been less than happy to get a call that early in the morning, but had grudgingly come into the office and actually been pretty quick in completing both the autopsy itself and the report.

"Anything on that weird slimy stuff?" The little vial of gelatinous goo they'd found at the dump site had caused something of a stir among the lab technicians.

Reid shook his head. "Not really. They've identified a component in it that's organic, but they haven't been able to figure out exactly what it is." When Emily looked at Spencer, his eyes had drifted off the page and out the window. "Huh," he murmured somewhat absently.

"What?"

Reid didn't respond.

"Reid," Prentiss said more forcefully.

When he turned to look at her, Spencer wore the expression he'd been sporting pretty regularly the last couple of days, like he was working on a puzzle that was particularly troubling to him. It was a different depth of distraction than his usual vagueness when working on a case.

"You OK?" she asked.

"What?" He seemed to shake himself mentally. "Yeah. I'm fine. Sorry."

She smiled at him. "No need to apologize. Just be sure to share with the class when you've got it figured out, OK?"

He twitched her a somewhat shaky smile in return. "OK," he agreed.

* * *

Hotch lifted his chin at the boy behind the counter at the diner. He pointed at the booth where the team had eaten in the past with a questioning look, and the kid nodded, holding up a finger to indicate he'd be with him in a minute before returning his attention to the group of kids sitting across the counter from him.

Hotch made his way toward the back with a stifled yawn. He and Derek had agreed to meet for a late lunch before heading back to the sheriff's office. Hotch knew he was early, but he'd woken sooner than he'd wanted to and been unable to get back to sleep. He'd just pulled his pad out to go over his notes again when the boy with the coffee materialized at his elbow. A white ceramic mug plunked down on the table.

"Coffee, right?" said the kid.

"Yes, please," Hotch agreed.

"You looking for breakfast or lunch?"

Hotch eyed the boy. "Is breakfast still available?" It was almost 1.

He got a shrug in response.

"Breakfast then, I guess." Hotch rubbed at his eyes. "Two eggs over easy, bacon, grits." He shouldn't be eating like this, but right now he didn't really care.

The boy wrote it on his pad, and Hotch looked at him consideringly.

"You're Tommy McCrae's brother, aren't you? Sheriff Sweed is your uncle?" Hotch was just putting it all together. He hadn't really thought about how all these people connected, but there'd been something about the kid's "just a second" finger-lift that had tickled at the back of his brain. He'd seen Luke Sweed do that a couple of times with the same expression on his face.

The boy startled slightly. "Um. Yes, sir." He seemed to think about it, then added, "I'm Jake."

"Jake." Hotch held out a hand. "I'm Aaron Hotchner." Jake shifted his pen to his left hand and shook. "Nice to meet you."

Jake hesitated uncertainly before saying, "I'll put your order in. Let me know if you need anything, OK?"

"I will. Thank you, Jake."

Derek joined him before the food arrived, sliding into the seat across the table with a protesting grumble. His own set of notes slapped onto the table, making Aaron raise his head in acknowledgment.

"Where...?" Derek had started to look around for coffee, but Jake had already arrived, putting Hotch's breakfast on the table even as he put down another mug and filled it with coffee. He was good, this kid. Hotch wondered how long the boy had been waiting tables.

Derek was eyeing Hotch's plate. He squinted up at the boy. "Can I get that, too?" he asked around a yawn, gesturing with his coffee.

"Sure."

Hotch ate in silence, giving Derek time to caffeinate.

When his meal arrived, Morgan dug in. He was running the last of his toast over the plate when he said, "The food ain't half bad."

Hotch had to agree. "And the coffee's pretty good, too." He'd pushed his plate to the side to continue taking notes while Morgan ate.

"I want to try something different with Winchester this afternoon," he said. Morgan looked up, setting his plate on top of Hotch's at the edge of the table to be picked up. "For the moment, I want to leave the question of Sam."

Derek nodded. "He shut down pretty quick on that one," he acknowledged. "Makes me think Sam must be around somewhere close, though," he added.

"Agreed," Hotch said. "But I think it's highly unlikely we're going to get Dean to give Sam up."

Again Derek nodded.

"I want to try approaching Dean from the perspective of a fellow investigator."

Derek raised an eyebrow at him.

"Not overtly. At least not at first." This was what had kept Hotch from getting back to sleep. There'd been something about the interview in Maryland that had intrigued him, made him wonder if there might be another way to connect with Winchester.

"It can be dangerous playing along with a delusion like that," Morgan said. "We gonna act like we think it's a ghost?"

"No," Hotch said. "I don't want to feed that particular fantasy. But I think we might be able to use his," he paused, " _professionalism_ , if you will, to make a connection. That interview in Baltimore made me think that he's more intelligent than the current profile indicates. 'Vengeful spirit' aside, there was a method to the investigation he outlined that was logical and seemingly well thought out."

Morgan's head bobbled as he considered it. "Yeah. OK." He took a sip of his coffee. "He's a cocky son of a bitch, though," he grunted. "I'm gonna enjoy knocking that smirk off his face when we nail him for murdering these women, the sick..."

Crockery clanking on the table startled both men. Jake stood next to them, face milky white. For a second Hotch was afraid the boy was going to pass out. Instinctively, he reached out to steady him. "Hey..."

Jake flinched away from the touch. "S- sorry," he stammered, trying again to get a better hold on the plates. "Sorry. I..."

Hotch withdrew his hand. "It's no problem, son. Are you OK?"

"Yeah, yeah," Jake gave him a sickly smile, voice cracking. "I'm fine, I... I'll get your check."

"And some coffee to go?" Morgan asked.

"Uh, sure. Yeah." He skittered off.

Morgan gave Hotch a wincing look. "Poor kid. I should've kept my voice down. I guess he may have known this latest girl."

Hotch frowned as he watched Jake push through the swinging doors back into the kitchen. "Yeah," Hotch said.

* * *

They'd gotten a call from Reid on the way into town. Reid had passed on time and cause of death as well details of the mutilations. He'd hung up on an estimation of being back within the hour.

Sheriff and deputy were in the office when they arrived.

"Any trouble?" Morgan inquired.

"Nope," Sweed answered. "I fed him, though, got him some coffee," he acknowledged.

Hotch nodded. "That's fine. Thanks. He say anything?"

Sweed shrugged. "Nah."

Hotch put his notes down on one of the desks. "We're going to take a different approach with Winchester this morning, and I'd like the two of you to join us, if you will."

Sweed's eyebrows went up. He glanced at Rodriguez. "OK." He paused. "I may send Matt to check in with our temporary deputy in the next hour or so, but we can be where you need us until then."

"I appreciate that." Hotch wanted to present the image of a team collaborating with Winchester. He'd be curious to see how the man reacted to a concentrated group of law enforcement. And how he responded to being taken seriously.

Winchester was lounging on the cot again when they entered, but this time he stood, eyes narrowing speculatively, when he noticed the local officers joining them.

"Reinforcements?"

Hotch didn't answer, moving back to the table in the adjoining cell and sitting. Morgan took his spot to the side, and Hotch heard the shuffle of Sweed and Rodriguez getting settled behind him.

"I saw the 'confession' tape from your arrest in Baltimore, Dean," Hotch opened.

Winchester's expression shifted subtly and there was a beat of silence. Then, "Yeah?"

"It got me thinking," Hotch went on, "that maybe you're _investigating_ something here, like you said you were there." He didn't mock the man by putting quotes around "investigating" but he did give it a certain amount of emphasis. Just a hint of disbelief but also maybe curiosity in his tone.

Again Winchester didn't respond immediately. His eyes went over Hotch's shoulder to the locals before he said cautiously, "And?"

"Are you?"

Winchester's face smoothed out as he considered the question, trying not to give away exactly what he was thinking, but still clearly suspicious. There was a moment where Hotch thought he'd gotten through, that Winchester was going to take the bait. He forced himself not to press, letting the silence do its work. But the answer was disappointing.

"I told you. I stopped to take a break." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder into the wall.

"So that was just a line in Baltimore? You don't investigate supernatural phenomena?"

Winchester shrugged. "I'm retired," he said.

Hotch had just opened his mouth to try another tactic, when the door into the holding area swung open.

"Hotch?"

He turned to see Emily poking her head into the room, Reid at her back, intending, he knew, just to let him know that she and Reid were in the office. She smiled an acknowledgment at the sheriff before her eyes shifted to their prisoner.

She blinked. "Dean?"

Around his surprise Hotch heard Winchester say, "Hey, Agent Prentiss," in a resigned-sounding tone.

Behind him, the sheriff and his deputy sighed. "Well, crap," they said.


	12. Chapter 12

Sam packed up his stuff and eased out of the booth he'd appropriated hours before. He fished his phone out of his pocket, dialing Jo as he pushed through the door into the baking heat.

Voicemail. "Hey, I'm on my way home. Call me if there's any reason I shouldn't be there." He hesitated. "Is there any news on Dean? I think I found the connection we needed between this kid, Gabe, and the recent killings. And with the original killer." He paused again. "OK. Bye."

He dropped the computer bag into the passenger seat of the truck, climbing in and starting the engine. He wondered about calling Luke and decided against it.

The VIN of the Mustang had made tracing the ownership of the car easier than Sam had thought it would be. He'd had no idea that there were places online where you could do those sorts of searches for free. Who'd'a thunk it?

Prior to Gabe Will's title, there had been the junk yard where Dean had said the kid had bought the car and before that a Conrad Merley, a Buck Simons, and a Frank Berg. Merley had been the name on the title before the junk yard. That had seemed like a logical place to start.

Turned out that Merley had been the eventual identification of the body found in the Mustang, so Sam felt like he'd been on the right track.

Sam had put together a timeline of the original killings with the locations of where the women had been taken and where the bodies had been found as best he could from the news reports and other writings about the killings he'd discovered. He'd tried to match up Merley's movements with the list, but tracking the movements of a car and its owner from almost 20 years ago was not an easy task.

The most direct reference Sam had been able to find was a "Con Merley" named as part of a "John" listing from a prostitution sting in a city close to where one of the earlier bodies had been dumped. Victim number three in the original slayings had been found off Highway 77 close to Norman, Oklahoma. Merley had been arrested for solicitation in Oklahoma City just a couple of days after Regina Washington's mutilated body had been discovered. That had been the closest Sam had been able to come in trying to connect Merley and the care with the earlier killings.

As far as linking Gabe with the killings, the breakthrough had come when Sam had realized that Gold Canyon, AZ where the original first girl had been found was actually in the Phoenix area where the first modern killing had happened. He'd found Gabe's name in an online listing of people picked up for DUI in Pinal County. The date had been less than a week before a young co-ed from Arizona State had gone missing. Her body, mutilated with a number one tattooed on her forehead had been found outside of Pecos, NM.

He needed to know more about Gabe's route across the country during the months the murders had taken place. Dean's conversation with the kid had focused on the car itself. But now Sam wanted to know more about where Gabe and the Mustang had been. If he could link them to any more of the disappearances or bodies, he'd feel a lot more comfortable with the conclusion that either the car or the kid were somehow involved in the murders. Dean had planned on checking out the car and making sure it wasn't going anywhere the night he'd been taken into custody. Sam had absolutely no idea what had come of either part of that particular plan. It was frustrating as hell.

When he got close to town, Sam decided he'd swing by the mechanic's and see if the car was still there. If it was and Gabe was there with it, it might be worth the risk to see if he could engage the kid in a little conversation.

* * *

There had been less than a handful of times in his years working with Hotch that Reid could remember having seen the older agent's stolid demeanor waver. This had been one of those times.

Hotch had actually opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before he'd gotten any words out.

"What the hell is going on?" To his credit, Hotch still managed to keep his voice perfectly steady despite his obvious confusion.

"I don't..." Emily's mouth was mimicking their boss's as she stared in bewilderment at the sheriff. "We..." She turned to Reid, and he saw the moment she registered that he wasn't nearly as surprised about the identity of the prisoner as she was. "Spencer?"

But before she could pursue it the sheriff spoke. "Agent Hotchner." Sweed stepped forward, face gray. His eyes went to Dean before skirting back to Hotch. "We need to talk."

"Wait." Morgan pushed away from the wall.

At the same time, Dean moved toward the bars of his cell, "Luke..."

Derek's head whipped between their prisoner and the sheriff. "What the hell?" Derek's voice was nowhere close to being as steady as Hotch's had been.

"Everybody out." Hotch's face was like stone.

"Wait." It was Dean again, voice urgent. "Luke. Don't..."

"Now." Hotch cut across whatever Dean had been about to say, pinning the sheriff with a gaze very few people dared disobey. Luke nodded his acknowledgment to Hotch, but gave Dean a quick smile before preceding Hotch and Morgan out of the holding area.

"Luke!"

The door's closing ended any additional contribution Winchester might have had.

Hotch held up a hand to forestall whatever Morgan had been going to say. He addressed Prentiss sharply. "Do you know that man?"

Prentiss was still looking more than a little gob-smacked by the presence of Dean Winchester in the jail. "Yes." She shook her head. "No. No. He..." She looked at the sheriff, confusion and betrayal on her face. "We..." Now she looked at Reid.

Spencer didn't know that he'd ever seen Prentiss so completely at a loss for words, either.

"Agents Prentiss and Reid met Dean at our house a couple of nights ago," Sheriff Sweed said quietly, sparing Emily from having to say it. "They watched the Battlestar Galactica marathon," he added, for a reason Spencer couldn't discern.

"At your house," Morgan said coldly.

Sweed met Derek's eyes. "Yes," he said simply, not responding to the anger in the other man's tone.

The sheriff's gaze shifted to Reid and away again. _He knows_ , Reid thought. _He knows I knew_.

"And I'm assuming they met Sam there, as well," Hotch said tightly. "I would imagine he was with his brother."

The sheriff paused before he nodded. "Yes."

"Where is Sam now?"

"I don't know."

Morgan narrowed his eyes at the sheriff. "You don't know?" he asked, disbelief and a precariously held in check fury in his voice.

"No," the sheriff said. "I don't."

Hotch hadn't taken his eyes off the sheriff. "But you know who the Winchesters are. What they've done." He wasn't asking questions.

The sheriff met Hotch's eyes steadily. "I know who they are. And what they've been _accused_ of doing." He paused. "I also know what they haven't done." He didn't break eye-contact with Hotch.

There was a long moment of silence.

"Do _you_ know where Sam Winchester is, deputy?" Hotch asked. He kept his eyes on Sweed for a beat before turning his attention to the other local officer.

"No, sir," Rodriguez answered.

"But you knew he was here. Knew who Dean Winchester was when we arrested him."

The deputy hesitated for a moment, but then squared his shoulders, meeting Hotch's gaze as steadily as his boss had. "Yes, sir."

"You have got to be freaking _kidding_ me!" This burst from Morgan, who shoved off from the desk he'd leaned up against.

Neither the sheriff or the deputy so much as flinched. But they were wary, eyes following Morgan when he paced away from the group of them.

Hotch sat down in a chair and rubbed a hand tiredly over his face, letting it rest momentarily across his mouth.

No one spoke.

"Why?" The question was addressed to the Luke, asked genuinely and thoughtfully by Hotch. "Why are you covering for them? If you know what they've done."

"Like I said, I know what they've been accused of doing, and I know what they haven't done." Luke sat in the chair across from the one Hotch had taken.

"What haven't they done?"

"They haven't killed anyone. They aren't sociopaths or murderers."

Hotch raised an eyebrow at the man. "And you know that how?"

The sheriff looked at his deputy and back to Hotch. "I just... I _know_ these boys, Agent Hotchner. They're good men. They're not... they're not _capable_ of what they've been accused of. I read the files. There were witnesses in each of those cases that said Sam and Dean didn't do what they were accused of. Hell, in Baltimore, it was the cop who _arrested_ them who was the actual murderer."

Hotch watched Sweed. "You were harboring them before you had access to those files, sheriff."

The sheriff took off his hat and scrubbed both hands over his head. "Look. The boys have been friends of our family for years; since before this 'most wanted' thing happened. They stayed at the hotel a couple of years ago and, just, clicked, I guess with my wife and our boys. Then, not long after that, they stepped into a situation here ..." he glanced at Rodriguez, "when I was... shot by a man who later went to our house and took Tommy. Sam was with him. Got taken, too. But he—Sam—he protected Tommy, kept him safe until Dean and ... our other two boys could get there." He hesitated, seemed to be collecting himself before he went on. "If it weren't for the Winchesters," he finally said roughly, "Tommy would be dead, and our family would be in ruins." He cleared his throat. "I owe them everything," he said. "And I trust them completely. I know they weren't involved in these murders the same way I know they weren't involved in any of the previous murders they've been accused of."

Rodriguez's eyes hadn't left his boss while Sweed had spoken.

"Deputy?" Hotch's voice brought the younger man's attention back to him. "Is your experience the same as the sheriff's?"

The deputy shrugged. "I trust them because Luke trusts them," he told Hotch simply.

Morgan snorted.

Rodriguez's eyes flashed before he said coldly, "What? You don't trust things because he does?" He jerked his chin toward Hotch.

Morgan blinked. He didn't respond in words, but there was a shadow of recognition that passed over his face, and he gave the sheriff a more thoughtful look.

"I don't know the Winchesters like Luke does," Rodriguez admitted. "And I didn't like that Dean put the boys in danger by going after Potter with them ..." Reid assumed the man was talking about the incident the sheriff had just mentioned. His jaw tightened at some memory that he then shook away. "But I've never seen anything from them that would make me think they would do this. And Luke asked me to trust him about them." He looked at Sweed. "So I did. I do."

There was another lingering silence.

Emily cleared her throat lightly. "You know, according to the FBI medical examiner, Amelia Santos was probably killed between midnight and 1am Monday morning. And as much as I hate to admit it—because I feel like a fool for not having recognized them—the Winchesters couldn't have killed her then. Reid and I were at the house, with them from a little before 12 until after 2."

"Time of death isn't exact," Morgan said sharply. "You know that. Maybe they killed her before you got there and kept her somewhere..." He trailed off with a renewed, suspicious glare at Sweed.

"Maybe," Emily conceded. "But I really have a hard time seeing that given my experience with the family that night—they were ready for bed, all of them, relaxed." She turned to Reid. "Spencer?" she asked, looking for confirmation.

Which brought Reid back to the attention of Hotch and Morgan.

Hotch turned toward him slowly, considering.

Morgan frowned, eyes narrowing. "Yeah, Reid. What was your experience?"

Reid felt his eyelid flutter into nervous blinking under Morgan's implacable stare. He took a breath. "I think it unlikely that Dean or Sam Winchester committed these murders or the ones they were previously accused of."

"And you're basing this on what?" Morgan challenged him. "A couple of hours watching television with them?"

Reid bit his lip, eyes flicking to Hotch and then to Emily.

"Reid." Hotch's voice was flat.

Spencer's shoulders hunched, protectively. "Based on my study of their files when Dean first made the most wanted list," he admitted.

Emily's mouth dropped open incredulously. "You knew," she said. "You knew when Dean came to the door who he was," she realized. " _Damn_ it, Reid!" Her voice was a curious mixture of anger, exasperation, and embarrassment. "You can't _do_ that, Spencer! You can't keep that stuff to yourself!"

"I know!" Reid hated that he sounded defensive, as well as twelve. "But I wasn't sure what... When I saw Sam on Saturday, I didn't know that they..."

"'When you saw Sam on Saturday'?" Morgan jumped in now. He'd moved closer to Reid, and in spite of himself, Spencer backed up a step. This was not going to be good.

He cleared his throat. "I saw him at the diner Saturday morning, when we were at breakfast, I..."

"You've know they were in town since Saturday." Morgan barked. "Reid, I swear to God..."

"That's enough." Hotch's voice cut through the rising agitation in the younger agents. "This isn't helpful."

On a glare at Reid, Morgan subsided and Emily sat back unhappily, arms crossed over her chest.

Hotch turned his eyes to Reid. "We'll talk more about this later, but right now, I want your impressions of the Winchesters. Both from what you read in their files and what you saw Sunday night."

Reid moved his shoulders uneasily, trying to shrug off as best he could the weight of his colleagues' disapproval. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just... I don't think they're guilty of what they've been charged with and..."

"Why, Reid?" Hotch didn't want to hear his apology. He wanted to address the case. "What makes you so sure?"

Spencer took a breath, gathering his thoughts. "As the sheriff's already noted, there were discrepancies in their files. Especially with witness accounts. People who were on the scene who said explicitly that from their perspective the Winchesters actually saved them."

Morgan opened his mouth with a scowl, but Reid didn't let him speak.

"Yes, admittedly the witnesses often couldn't explain how. But the _victims_ were the ones who most often tried to exculpate Dean and Sam when the Winchesters were accused. Additionally, the timing on the crimes and the Winchesters' actual presence at the location don't line up. I tried to raise this with Henriksen several times, but he dismissed it, said that the Winchesters were pros at flying under the radar and had to have been in the area when the deaths began. But I'm not sure. I think there has to be a way to check that. They've been accused of credit card fraud, so even if they weren't using cards under their own name, there may be aliases they used..."

"Credit card fraud," Morgan said tightly. "So they're not really innocent."

"No," Reid admitted – and he'd never said that they were. "But that's a long way from serial murder."

Hotch looked at the sheriff. "Are you aware of any aliases the Winchesters might have used?"

Sweed didn't answer immediately, and Reid wasn't sure if it was because the sheriff was considering lying or if it was just because he was trying to remember. Finally, Luke shook his head. "They've always used 'Winchester' with us."

"Hmmm," hummed Hotch.

"There's more," Reid went on. He ignored Derek's eye roll. "They just don't present as sociopaths when you're around them. There's no question that the relationship between Dean and Sam is unusually close. Probably closer, frankly, than is healthy for either of them. But they've also managed to form close bonds with the sheriff's family. In fact, I would say they consider themselves part of that family unit. Henriksen's profile has them diagnosed as pathologically co-dependent, unable to form relationships outside their sibling pair. But that wasn't what I saw. Dean exhibited definite protective behavior with both Jo and Jake – he came to the door to evaluate a potential threat to Jo as a maternal figure when we arrived, and he deliberately used physical contact to comfort and reassure a boy he most assuredly seems to view as younger brother of sorts." Spencer warmed to his subject. "Even on Saturday at the diner, the brief interaction between Sam and Jake that I witnessed was what I would consider to be socially appropriate. They hugged in greeting and Sam even seemed to know others in the community, acknowledging people at tables around them. Plus, Sam – the supposed submissive partner – was in no way threatened by the caretaking role Dean – purportedly the dominant sibling – took with Jake, which typically would cause insecurity and lashing out by the submissive at the weaker member of the group who might pose a threat to his own position in order to maintain... "

Luke's mouth had fallen slightly open. Reid stopped.

Prentiss cleared her throat slightly. "I, uh, would have to agree with Spencer based on what I saw. I haven't had a chance to really think about it too deeply, obviously, but superficially, I didn't notice any troubling behavior from either Sam or Dean Winchester. They seemed... normal. Though, looking back, I can see that both Jo and Jake were anxious about our being there." She looked thoughtfully at Luke. "How much do they know?"

They sheriff didn't even blink. "Nothing," he stated flatly. Then seemed to reconsider when eyebrows among the feds rose in disbelief. "Well, they know enough to know that the boys live a lifestyle that wouldn't recommend them to the FBI. But that's it." There was a subtle fierceness in his tone that went unchallenged.

When no one spoke, Reid said quietly, "I just don't see any indication that Sam and Dean Winchester have the type of personality disorder that would lead them to commit the torture and murder that we have here. Or that they would have committed this sort of serial killing in the past."

The silence that fell this time was less tense.

"Still," said Hotch somewhat dryly, glancing from Reid to Sweed. "They do seem to end up at a large number of violent crime scenes."

There was no offer of an explanation from the sheriff.

"So what are they doing here?" Morgan asked.

* * *

When they reentered the holding area, Winchester moved sharply toward the cell bars. He didn't speak, but his eyes swept past Hotch, focusing intently on the sheriff.

"It's OK, Dean," Sweed said wearily.

Winchester shifted his attention swiftly to Hotch, eyes narrowing almost threateningly. "What did he tell you?" he asked suspiciously. After the conversation they'd just had, Hotch recognized that the man's agitation wasn't concern for himself, but for the sheriff. Worry that the man might have implicated himself and his family in the Winchesters' troubles. Interesting.

"Not much, frankly," Hotch said evenly. "Just that he didn't believe you and your brother killed these women." He saw Dean's gaze flick to Sweed again as he absorbed the fact that they knew Sam was part of this. "Or that you committed many of the crimes you've been accused of."

Winchester's attention came back to Hotch. This wasn't news to him. He wasn't worried about what the sheriff thought of him – he knew that.

"And?"

"I'm curious," Hotch said. And he was. This case was not shaping up the way he would have expected. At all. "About what you're doing here. About why these men would be willing to take such risks to protect you and your brother."

The color leeched noticeably from Winchester's face. "They didn't know," he said roughly. "Luke..."

But Hotch was shaking his head. "It's too late for that, Dean," he said. "Both the sheriff and the deputy have admitted to knowing who you and Sam were and harboring known felons." Behind him, the sheriff moved restlessly, clearly not approving the implied threat to himself being used to manipulate Winchester. "Like I said, though," Hotch continued smoothly, "I'm curious as to why."

Dean's eyes went almost desperately to the man standing behind Hotch.

"I think it's OK, Dean," the sheriff said carefully. He then gave a short bark of what might have been laughter. "It can't get any worse, right?"

Winchester huffed out a breath. "You've met me and Sam, right? You know our luck," he said with a wry grin at the older man. "I'm betting it can get a lot worse." On a heavy sigh, he rubbed at the back of his neck. He looked at Sweed, before saying to Hotch, still cautious, "OK. What do you want?"

"We want the truth," Morgan said.

Hotch knew what was coming even before Dean said the words, a smirking grin suddenly appearing on their prisoner's previously serious looking face. It was like he couldn't help himself.

"You can't handle..."

What Hotch didn't see coming was the sheriff.

"Dean." The word cracked like a gunshot in the enclosed space of the holding area, even though the sheriff hadn't raised his voice. The warning wasn't a shout, but it was a command and Winchester responded instantly—a start and a grimace at the older man that seemed to be an unspoken "sorry."

Sweed said tightly, "This isn't the time or the place." He sat exhaustedly in the chair that had been pulled up close to the bars, leaning over to rest his elbows on his knees.

Winchester hunched his shoulders slightly at the rebuke, but he met Sweed's eyes squarely. "I've been here before, Luke," he said. "They're not going to believe me."

Dean looked at Hotch. "You're not going to believe the truth," he said simply.

Hotch's attention went to Sweed and then back at Winchester. "Try me."

When Winchester still didn't say anything, Hotch prompted him. "You're on an investigation of your own?"

"Maybe," Winchester finally conceded with a look at Luke. Wariness in every line of his body, he sat down on the cot. He didn't elaborate.

"Another ghost? Like the one in Baltimore?" Derek asked. He seemed to be trying for "open" in his tone, but was really only managing "annoyed."

Winchester's eyes slid to Morgan. He lifted a shoulder, perhaps in concession.

"You think a ghost killed Amelia Santos?" Derek clarified.

Dean didn't react to the skepticism in the man's tone. "Maybe," he admitted.

"Why?" Derek demanded. He was being deliberately belligerent, Hotch knew, testing Winchester's willingness to be – or at least appear – reasonable. Good cop/bad cop was practically trite these days, used so often in movies and television that it was almost considered a joke. But when done well, the combination of a purposely unsympathetic questioner working in concert with a sympathetic listener often could prompt a suspect to open up more quickly than he might otherwise.

Hotch was watching Winchester carefully during the exchange, and he was struck by the stillness of the man. He wasn't fidgeting or being deliberately indolent the way he had been the previous day. He was poised and alert, every bit of his attention seemingly directed at Morgan. And yet Hotch could tell that Winchester was also utterly attuned to what everyone else in the room was doing moment to moment. It was almost... professional.

"Why did it kill Amelia? Or why do we think it's a ghost?" Winchester asked.

"Why a ghost?" Hotch took over the questioning again.

Winchester's lips pursed thoughtfully and for a long moment he studied the floor. He seemed to come to some sort of decision.

"The pattern of the deaths is like some from a number of years ago. The killings stopped abruptly, then." He hesitated before continuing. "Sam says that serial killers don't generally just quit. Usually they only stop when they've _been_ stopped. Get caught. Or when they're dead."

And here was Sam.

Hotch decided not to comment on the younger brother's sudden presence in the narrative. "There are other ways they get stopped sometimes. Why not the guy starting up again? Or even a copycat?" he asked.

"Could be, but..." he paused. Looked at Sweed.

"What?" Hotch wanted Winchester's attention on him.

The man sighed and said resignedly, "There was EMF activity on the body of the girl that was dumped here. And around the dump site for Amelia."

"EMF?" Prentiss. "What...?"

"Electromagnetic field." Reid answered the other agent's question.

"How do you have electromagnetic field _activity_?" Morgan asked skeptically. "And how would you even know that it exists?"

"We've got a reader. I..."

"Was that the gadget was you were messing with at the site when we picked you up?" Morgan sounded doubtful.

Dean nodded, eyes guarded.

"You have an EMF _reader_?" Reid's eyes were wide, and he sounded ridiculously eager. "How do you get something like that? Can you buy...?"

"You can," Winchester said. "But I made this one." He said it shortly, but there was an strange note of pride Hotch detected in his voice.

"You made it?" Now Reid sounded impressed, and Dean looked oddly pleased, giving the younger man a small smile. Reid leaned forward, eyes alight with fascination. "How..."

Hotch pitched his voice to be heard over the slight babble of conversation he had to acknowledge he'd lost control of. "How do you know the body was giving off the EMF activity?" he asked pointedly.

Silence fell immediately.

Then Hotch knew. "The morgue." He looked at Sweed. "It wasn't kids messing around."

The sheriff had the grace to look somewhat abashed.

Dean answered sharply. "That was me and Sam. Luke had nothing to do with it."

Hotch leveled a stare at Winchester. "Maybe not. But the sheriff certainly misdirected us afterward," he said coolly.

Neither man responded, and Hotch waited deliberately until the silence got uncomfortable before he said, "How did you know these murders were similar to earlier killings?"

"Descriptions, pictures from the papers."

"How'd you make the connection?"

Winchester shrugged. "Sam," he admitted. "He, uh, was kind of obsessed with serial killers for awhile when he was a kid." Dean cleared his throat. "He's good with patterns and he remembered the details – the marks on their foreheads, I think – from the series of murders he'd read about during that phase of his geekdom." Now he looked at Sweed, shaking his head ruefully. "Every time Dad wanted to investigate a suspicious death Sammy tried to convince him it was a serial killer. For some reason he'd decided that would be better than a ghost or some other sort of thing being responsible."

Hotch felt his eyebrow go up. _Other sort of thing?_

The smile Sweed gave Dean in response was remarkably sad.

"So, where is Sam?" Hotch asked.

Blank stare from Winchester. "Dunno."

"You think he might have more information?"

Dean shrugged.

"I'd like to talk to Sam," Hotch said.

Dean maintained the expressionless look that said pretty clearly "yeah, good luck with that."

Hotch swiveled around to look at Sweed. "Any chance we can at least find out what Sam might have discovered while we've been interviewing his brother?"

Unsurprisingly, the sheriff's stare was very similar to Winchester's.

They seemed to have reached an impasse.

A light rap on the door into the holding area turned everyone's face that direction, and a tall young man with a slightly anxious expression stepped into the room.

"Uh, hey."

There was a sharp scraping of furniture legs across the floor as both Winchester and Sweed startled to their feet.

"God _damn_..."

Over the growl of Winchester's voice, the kid said loudly, "I'm Sam Winchester." And accompanied by the gusty huff of Sweed's burdened-sounding sigh, he added defiantly, "I'm turning myself in."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Luke makes reference to some incidents involving the Winchesters and the Sweeds. If you're interested in the full stories, you can read [Frail](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/27629089) for the tale of Tommy and Sam being kidnapped by the possessed man who shot Luke. For Winchesters as little boys, check out [Regression](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/27668648) and [Changes](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/27658279). For Winchesters as girls, give [Girls! Girls! Girls!](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/27672853) a try.

As the door clanged shut, Sam braced himself. He'd been fairly confident that Dean wouldn't go after him with Luke there (though he wouldn't have been so sure if it had just been the Feds), but now they were alone and vigilance was required.

Dean didn't speak, just stood, jaw locked tight, hands curling into fists and then out as he glared at his brother.

"Dean..." Sam started.

"Don't," Dean gritted, cutting him off. "I mean it, Sam. I can't..." Sam could see that Dean was trying to get himself under control, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to loosen them up. "I'm this close..." Dean's whole body tightened again, and he took a deliberate step back, turning away.

Sam had his reasons for turning himself in, and it wasn't to piss off either Dean or Luke. Whatever Dean might think at the moment. But Sam had known when he'd made the decision to walk into the sheriff's office, that both men would not be pleased. He'd also known that if he could ride out Luke's disappointment and Dean's rage – hopefully without a bloody nose or broken jaw courtesy of his brother – that he could explain himself, and that they'd understand. Even if they didn't like it.

Sam let out a slow breath. "OK, man." He stayed where he was by the cell door. As anxious as Sam was to justify himself, he knew that trying to do that right now would be futile.

An agonizing couple of minutes ticked by.

"OK." Dean had taken a deep breath and turned toward his brother. He was still mad as hell Sam could tell, but he was willing to listen. "Tell me why I shouldn't beat the crap out of you for showing up here."

Sam took a breath of his own. "We need the Feds."

Dean was still for a moment. "Why?"

"I talked to Gabe."

Dean's eyebrows drew together, not seeing the connection. So Sam backed up, hoping to explain. "I made a list of all the original killings and all the recent killings. They didn't line up. Not geographically anyway that I could see at first. But then I realized that the first of both sets of murders were connected with the Phoenix area." He took a cautious step forward, and when Dean didn't react beyond a questioning look for him to keep talking, Sam moved toward the cot and sat down. "The first body was found in Gold Canyon, which is outside of Phoenix, and the first girl killed this time was an ASU student. She went missing from Phoenix proper." He stopped to give Dean time to digest that.

"Huh," said Dean thoughtfully.

"Yeah."

"And Gabe was there?"

"Yeah. Picked up for DUI in Pinal County around the time the girl went missing."

"He tell you that?"

Sam gave his brother a half-smile. "No. Figured that out on my own. But that was what made me think I needed to talk to the kid."

Dean nodded. "I never got a chance to mess with his car," he admitted with a grimace. "Forgot."

Sam shrugged. "Didn't matter. He was there. Still working on it."

Dean puffed out a relieved sigh. "What did he say?" Now he sat down next to Sam on the cot, which gave an affronted squeak. They both stilled, then shifted cautiously. When the bed didn't collapse under them, they settled themselves more comfortably.

Shaking his head, Sam said with a frustrated grunt, "Not much really. Nothing that ties him directly to _any_ of the locations." He leaned forward carefully, resting his elbows on his knees, before he turned to give Dean a look. "But I can't shake the feeling that he's it."

Dean was nodding consideringly. "Yeah," he agreed. "The EMF... You think the kid's even aware what's happening? What he's doing?"

"I don't. He just doesn't act like someone who's hiding anything, you know?" Sam rubbed at his ear absently. "I'm thinking that if it's some sort of possession, he may not have memories of the places where he's taking the women or killing them. Maybe he's just remembering the in between places. But he may still be using a credit card. Or maybe he'll pop up on the grid with traffic cameras."

"The Feds," said Dean.

"Yeah." Sam squinted at Dean. "But how do we get them to check without talking about possession and getting committed to a mental hospital?"

He was surprised when Dean grinned somewhat sardonically and waggled his eyebrows at him.

* * *

The sheriff scratched his head, casting a glance at the door that separated the office from the holding cells. "I'm not sure leaving them by themselves is going to be healthy for Sam, right now."

Hotch stiffened. "Is Dean abusive toward his brother?" He'd just about been convinced that the profile on Winchester was off, but maybe...

Sweed looked genuinely shocked by the question. "Good Lord, no," he said emphatically. "I just..." He stopped. "Do you have brothers, Agent Hotchner?"

Hotch didn't let his surprise at the question show. "One." He thought about how he'd react if Sean did something similar in the same situation. He felt his lip twitch in grudging understanding. "Younger," he added.

Sweed raised an eyebrow at him. "I've got two myself. And I'm raising three."

Hotch nodded his head slowly, looking at the door into the holding area thoughtfully. His own brother was so much younger than he, that Hotch had never struck Sean in real frustration or anger. And there were other considerations their lives that had made Hotch sensitive to striking out. But their relationship had been a physical one in the way most boys' relationships were—wrestling or poking or punching. When he was young, Sean, too, had been liable to express his anger with his big brother by hitting; and even if Hotch hadn't ever hit back, he'd done his share of pinning Sean's arms or body until the younger boy had calmed down.

Grunting his understanding, Hotch turned away from his contemplation of the door. He wasn't going to drop his guard with the Winchesters. But being willing to assess their behavior through a lens other than "sociopathic killers" might serve the investigation well at the moment.

Sweed smiled slightly. "Most of us have that tendency to 'speak' physically to our brothers smoothed out of us by our parents or school or whatever to some extent by the time we leave home." He tilted his head in the direction of the cells. "Not so much with those boys."

"You don't worry about that with your own kids?" Prentiss asked. "That one of the Winchesters would," here she raised an eyebrow and quoted the sheriff back to himself, "'speak physically' to boys they apparently see as younger brothers?"

"Not in the least," Sweed said easily. "Well," he amended, "not about expressing _anger_ that way. They do their fair share of tackling and walloping on each other." He shook his head. "But that's pure love," he said, smile deepening into a fond grin. "I have no concern at all that Dean or Sam would ever hit one of our kids out of anger. None."

"But you think he might, what, hit Sam now because he's mad?" Morgan asked.

Sweed shrugged. "Maybe," he conceded. "But then, Sam's got four inches and probably 40 pounds on him these days, so..."

"Was their father physically abusive?" Hotch asked.

Sweed hesitated long enough to make Hotch think he knew the answer to the question. But ultimately the sheriff shook his head. "No. I don't think he was. Not in the way you probably mean." He went on slowly, "I met John Winchester once, and I do think he had an issue with anger. And I think he thought his boys needed to be tough to survive in a world he saw as filled with evil—real, tangible evil." Sweed looked again at the door that separated them from the Winchesters, and there was the sadness in his face again that Hotch found himself responding to. "Dean and Sam didn't grow up easy, Agent Hotchner," he acknowledged heavily.

For the time being, Hotch was willing to trust the sheriff on Winchester matters, so he nodded. With a glance he drew his team toward the corner where they could all sit down. The sheriff and deputy joined them, drawing up chairs from around the room.

When they got settled, it was Morgan who broke the silence. "We're not buying this crap about ghosts and EMF readings, are we?" It was part question, part statement.

 _No_ , Hotch wanted to say. Because he wasn't. But he didn't give voice to that thought, leaving the floor open to see what his agents had to say.

"Well, in terms of the Winchesters as suspects, we have to deal with the fact that they have an alibi at least for Amelia's death," Emily said. She spoke quickly as Morgan started to interject something. "Even without Reid and me being _with_ them at the time of death the coroner has given, we've got to recognize that Jo and the kids are going to say that the Winchesters were with them in the time leading up to our arrival. And Luke can say he was with them for at least some period of time after we left."

"Not exactly unbiased witnesses," Morgan said somewhat shortly. He shot the sheriff a glance. "No offence."

"None taken," said Sweed curtly. Though clearly it had been.

It wasn't a surprise to Hotch when the deputy took umbrage at the slight to his boss. "Whatever you think, _Agent_ Morgan," bit out Rodriguez, "Any word given by Luke or Jo Sweed around here is taken as gospel. So you can take your 'not exactly unbiased' and shove it up your ..."

"Whoa!" Luke's half-barked, half-laughed exclamation cut off the rest of his deputy's thought. He reached out and grasped the younger man's shoulder, giving it a gentle, but solid shake. "It's OK, Matty. Agent Morgan's just doing his job. And I think maybe we've got to give him the fact that from his perspective we're lawbreakers ourselves. So."

Rodriguez subsided somewhat, but continued to glower at Morgan, who met him glare for glare.

Hotch sighed. He understood Morgan's position. He did. Sweed and his family had been knowingly harboring one of the FBI's most wanted criminals. That made them less than trustworthy in the man's eyes. Understandably. And Hotch knew the fact that Morgan felt like he'd been played for a fool by the sheriff and deputy was factoring into his agent's continued hostility. Also understandable.

The thing was, Hotch's gut was telling him to trust the sheriff. Reid's analysis of the Winchesters seemed to support Sweed's position that the two men were not the stone cold killers they'd been labeled. And there was Hotch's own read of Dean Winchester over the course of the interviews they'd conducted. The man just didn't present like a sociopath, certain anti-social tendencies aside.

"OK," he finally said. "For the moment, let's take Dean and Sam Winchester off the table as suspects. Where does that leave us?"

Morgan snorted. "Nowhere," he admitted. "If the Winchesters aren't involved, we're back where we started."

A somber silence fell.

"But are we really?" Reid ventured. "Before Sam turned himself in we were talking about seeing whether he knew any more from their investigation."

"And now we're back to ghosts," Morgan grumped.

"Not necessarily," Reid said. "I mean, maybe he's uncovered something that would indicate it wasn't a ghost."

"What do you think, Spencer?" Emily asked. "Ghosts?" she offered with a small smile. "Or no ghosts?"

Reid didn't answer immediately. He glanced at Sweed and then the deputy. _He knows or suspects something_ , Hotch realized.

"Reid?" Hotch prodded.

The agent shrugged his narrow shoulders awkwardly. "I think there's a lot out there we don't know," he hedged. Another flick of his gaze to Sweed, who was watching the younger man with an uncertain expression on his face. Like he was trying to figure Reid out.

"You can't seriously..." Morgan started.

"Sheriff?" Hotch asked over Morgan.

Sweed's eyes left Reid and fixed on Hotch.

"What do you think?" Hotch asked.

The hesitant expression on the sheriff's face didn't waver. _He's nervous_ , Hotch thought, _and maybe a little embarrassed._ The man bit his lip, glancing between Rodriguez and Reid again.

"I, uh." Sweed cleared his throat. "I seen a lot of things I never would've expected to see before the Winchesters came into our lives," he finally said. "If they say it's a ghost, I'd be inclined to believe them."

"'Seen a lot of things,'" Morgan said sharply. "Like what?"

The sheriff paused.

"Like a demon?" It was Rodriguez who offered that, but he was looking at his boss. Sweed blinked in what seemed like surprise. "Gene," the younger man said softly. "That's what it was, wasn't it?"

Slowly, the sheriff nodded. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Matty. I didn't want to..." He shook his head. "How did you know?"

The deputy smiled ruefully. "Believe me, Luke, I didn't want to either," he admitted. "So when you asked me to trust you about it, I just did. But I couldn't... There was something..." He let out a breath. "I went to talk to Gene after the commitment hearing. I knew you were visiting him and I... He told me." He stopped for a second. "And I believed him."

The cryptic conversation ended as Sweed nodded his understanding, and Prentiss spoke for the entire team when she said politely, "I'm sorry, but what the hell are you talking about?"

The two men actually laughed. "Sorry," the sheriff said. "Sorry. It's just a relief that Matt knows. I..."

"Knows _what_?" Emily interrupted impatiently. "That there was a _demon_?" Her expression repeated the earlier question, even if her mouth didn't. _What the hell?_

Sweed instantly sobered. Exchanged another glance with Rodriguez. The nervousness was back. But he explained, "You remember what I told you earlier? About being shot? About the boys saving Tommy?" At the round of nods, he went on cautiously. "The man who shot me was possessed. By a demon."

Neither Sweed nor Rodriguez spoke, apparently letting the agents absorb this. Waiting for a reaction.

"I don't even know what to say to that," Morgan said. There wasn't anger in his tone, just a certain amount of bewilderment.

"I get that," Sweed said. "And it's hard to explain. If for no other reason that it sounds completely insane." He looked at his deputy. "But."

Hotch didn't know what to do with that information any more than Morgan did. "Tell us," he said shortly.

Sweed did.

The tale of black eyes and flying bodies, of exorcisms and brain injuries left yet another loaded silence in its wake.

After a couple of minutes, Hotch asked, "How did your boys respond to that?" He truly wasn't sure what to make of the sheriff and this information. The man seemed like a steady, down-to-earth sort of guy. But this...

"Well." Sweed moved his shoulders uncomfortably. "The truth, Agent Hotchner, is that we believe in demons and angels. Even before the Winchesters showed up, if you'd asked what we thought about demons, we'd have said they were real. Though, as our oldest said, the idea that demons are _really_ real was... still something of a revelation, I guess you might say. Anyway, it wasn't _really_ a stretch for any of us, including the boys, to believe that it was a demon that had possessed Gene Potter. Especially given what Tommy had seen, and Michael's... role in getting rid of it. I'll admit though that we've had our fair share of bad dreams and deep conversations since it happened."

Hotch nodded. _Interesting_.

Reid cleared his throat somewhat hesitantly. "You, uh, said there were 'things" that you'd witnessed since you met the Winchesters. Have you seen a ghost or...?"

The sheriff seemed to shake himself as he turned to Reid. Now he actually smiled. "No ghosts. But we've had a couple of de-aged—I guess?—Winchester boys at our house. And once they were girls."

Jaws dropped, including the young deputy's.

"Oh, my God," Rodriguez said, sounding somewhat dazed. "Dee and Sammy."

The sheriff's smile morphed into a slightly maniacal-looking grin. "Yeah."

Staring at his boss in open-mouthed wonder, the kid actually started to giggle. He leaned over, pressing his face into his knees, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

"We've got pictures," Sweed said.

Rodriguez took a whooping breath, his whole body convulsing as he threw his head back and gave in to gales of helpless laughter.

When Luke joined him, Hotch looked around at his team, knowing it was useless to continue until the two men had gotten it out of their systems. Prentiss and Reid were watching Sweed and Rodriguez with confused, but vaguely amused expressions. Morgan looked more annoyed than anything else, but even he had the smallest of smiles on his face. It was hard not to respond to such unrestrained mirth, even if it was more than a little hysterical.

Finally, the laughter died down to a more manageable level.

"I'm sorry," Sweed said, wiping at his eyes. "I'm sorry. It's just..." The look he gave Hotch was frank. "I know how it sounds. I do. It's absolutely unbelievable."

The truth was, the demeanor and reaction of both Sweed and Rodriguez, made Hotch more inclined to believe them than not. Not that he believed in demons or de-aged or girl(?) Winchesters. But Hotch was coming to believe that it was possible there was something going on here that didn't fit into the grid he generally used. He just wasn't sure what it was yet.

Sweed went on, hesitantly now, unsure of how what he had said, what he was going to say, would be taken. "It's hard to believe. I get that. And you may think I'm as crazy as they are now, but... Just. Try to be open to what they say."

When Sweed's phone rang, he pulled it out of his pocket with an impatient sounding grunt. His mouth twisted into a grimace as he read the caller ID. "Sam," he said.

No one had frisked him. Hotch rubbed a hand over his eyes as he exchanged a look with Morgan. They were getting sloppy.

"What?" the sheriff said without preamble. His face softened somewhat as he listened. He nodded. "Yeah. OK." He listened again, huffed out a laugh. "Yeah. But you tell Sam he's not out of the doghouse with me yet."

The sheriff hung up. "Dean says Sam's got some information that might be helpful. And that y'all can follow up on it better than they can."

Hotch considered. "Let's hear what he has to say."

Sweed rose. "I'll get 'em."

Morgan raised an eyebrow at Hotch as the sheriff moved toward the holding area. "We lettin' 'em go?"

Hotch shook his head. "They're not going anywhere." He looked at Rodriguez for confirmation. "Not with the sheriff and his family compromised."

The deputy watched Hotch somberly. "No," he agreed. "They're not."

When the Winchesters entered the main office, Dean was close behind the sheriff, while Sam hung back slightly.

They crossed the room slowly, stopping when they came to the edge of the haphazard circle of chairs at the desk.

For a second no one said anything.

Then, "Luke says you're willing to listen to what we have to say." Dean seemed to speak for both of the Winchesters, and he spoke directly to Hotch.

Meeting the man's eyes squarely, Hotch nodded. "Yes."

Dean took a breath, releasing it somewhat unsteadily. "After Sam tells you what he found, I want you to let him go."

"De- ," Sam started, taking a step up to his brother.

"No," Dean bit out, hand coming up sharply at Sam. He didn't take his eyes off Hotch. "He's not wanted by the feds. I want him released if we can help you with this."

Hotch glanced over Dean's shoulder at Sam, who had subsided at his brother's gesture. The expression on his face, though, was pure rebellion.

"I can't make that deal, Dean," Hotch said evenly. "Not at this point." He returned his gaze to Sam. "Your brother may not be on the most wanted list, but there's still that bank robbery you were both involved in. That is a federal matter."

"There wasn't a robbery," Dean ground out. "We didn't take any money, Sam wasn't ..."

"Dean." Sam's voice, low and calming, stopped the flow of words from his brother. Something in Dean's behavior had changed Sam's demeanor from angry to placating. He didn't touch Dean, but moved close enough that his presence could be felt. "Don't. Let's just... Let me tell them. And we can see from there." Quickly, Sam glanced at Hotch, then back at his brother's tense, angry—no worried—profile. "Come on, man."

Dean didn't immediately acknowledge what his brother had said.

"Dean." Oddly gentle.

Tight nod. "Fine."

Sam shifted to the side, so that he was now standing next to his brother. Dean's eyes slid to Sam's and with slight nod gave what seemed to be final permission for Sam to speak.

"I think there's a connection between a kid who's here in town working on his car and the recent murders," Sam started.

"Gabe Wills," Morgan said shortly. "We interviewed him. He's a non-starter."

Dean's eyes narrowed at the tone, but Sam said easily enough, "He was in the Phoenix area when the first victim went missing last year."

Emily frowned. "No, he wasn't. At least, that wasn't one of the places he mentioned in his interview."

"Did you check on it?" Sam asked.

Emily shook her head. "No," she admitted. "He didn't fit the profile at all, and he was much too young for the earlier murders, so we didn't pursue it."

"He didn't do the earlier murders."

"You think he's a copycat?" Emily asked. "There are things about the original murders no one knew that make it highly unlikely this is someone other than the same unsub."

Here Sam looked at Dean. Again he got a brief inclination of the head.

"We think it's possible that the ghost of the original killer is possessing this kid, Gabe."

"Possessing?" Hotch asked. "Like a demon?"

Sam's eyebrows went up. Another glance at Dean. "Kind of," he acknowledged, "but not really. Demons are conscious entities with agendas and personal motivations. Ghosts aren't really... conscious, I guess. They're generally caught in patterns from right before they died. They don't really have _intentions_ like demons do. They just follow whatever script they've got playing for themselves."

"So..." Hotch didn't see the difference.

"So," Dean said gruffly, "a demon possesses someone with the purpose of screwing with the person and the people around them. They're evil. And everything they do is evil. Ghosts... ghosts are usually just trapped. They're not really aware of what they're doing; they can't help themselves, in a way." He stopped for a moment before continuing. "Usually they're tied to a place. The place they died, the place they'd lived. But sometimes they get attached to an object. Here we're guessing it's the car."

"The mustang?" Morgan asked.

Sam nodded. "Or something from the mustang." He shook his head uncertainly. "But the connection is definitely the car. Gabe told Dean that he'd bought the car from a junkyard and restored it. And that there'd been a body in the back seat when the owner of the yard came across it."

To the side, Luke snorted.

"Sorry," he said, clearing his throat when all eyes turned toward him. "I was just imagining Bobby's reaction in a similar situation." He waved a hand at Sam, who was grinning back at him. "Carry on," he commanded magnanimously.

Hotch wasn't sure who this "Bobby" was, but the comment had elicited a raised eyebrow and a smirk from Dean as well.

"Anyway," Sam drawled. "I did a VIN search, and the person on the title before the junkyard was a guy named Conrad Merley. He was also the body in the car."

Emily was writing the name down, brows drawn together.

"I found a prostitution arrest for Merley in Oklahoma around the time Regina Washington's body was discovered in the same area."

"Number three," Reid murmured.

Sam glanced at him with an affirming nod. "Right." He paused. "But I haven't been able to get any farther with tracking down Merley on the internet. Or Gabe for that matter." He bit his lip and looked at Dean, then Sweed before peering somewhat hesitantly at Hotch. "But we thought maybe the FBI would have the resources..." He trailed off.

Emily was staring thoughtfully at Sam. "We could get a list of locations for both sets of murders and have Garcia see what she can find in terms of matching Wills or Merley..."

Reid nodded enthusiastically. "If we can make those connections on enough of the killings we'd have enough..." Reid kept going, something about statistics and evidence and Hotch tuned him out as he began, mentally, to sift through what Sam Winchester had just said. He wasn't exactly sure how the ghost theory played into this plan of action, but it seemed like a solid enough idea.

To his right, Hotch noticed that Derek was wearing the expression he often did when Reid got rolling on one of his rambling explanations of whatever minor statistic had distracted him from the bigger picture of the investigation—a familiar mix of amusement and exasperation. In spite of his own reaction, though, Derek still shot a warning look at Dean, not about to tolerate any attitude from someone other than one of their own team.

But Dean was watching Reid attentively, brow knitted slightly as he considered what the younger man was saying. It surprised Hotch. Reid's youth and frightening intelligence rarely garnered him any respect from the type of man Winchester seemed to be. In fact, contempt was more often the emotion that came up, especially in moments like this when Spencer forgot himself in the excitement of having something to contribute. But Winchester was listening intently, nodding slightly to indicate that he understood. When Hotch glanced at Sam, he saw that the kid was nodding along, too, but even more eagerly than his brother.

"Yeah, exactly," Sam agreed. "I've got a list of locations of the murders and a map with the places I could identify for Merley and Gabe marked. I can show you the research that... "

When Hotch's attention shifted to Dean again, he noticed that the look on that young man's face had morphed into one not unlike the expression Derek had been wearing when Reid had been speaking. But when Dean caught Hotch looking at him, the man's eyes narrowed, protective, as well.

Hotch quirked the corner of his mouth up, tilting his head almost imperceptibly at Reid, who was practically bouncing in his seat he was so excited by what Sam was saying.

And Dean laughed out loud. "OK," he said, cutting abruptly across Sam's enthusiastic voice. "Before you two totally dork out..."

Reid's face fell uncertainly, but Sam just kept on going. "No, seriously, Dean, Spencer's..."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean waved a dismissive hand at Sam's reassurances, "I get that, geek boy. But you're kind of freaking the feds out, so cool it, OK?"

"No one's freaked out," Hotch said blandly. "I just didn't figure there could be another Reid out there."

Dean gave Hotch an assessing stare before he responded dryly, "I don't know about yours, but as annoying as mine is sometimes, he does have his uses." Dean reached up (and up) to pat Sam on the top of his head, dodging easily out of range when Sam took a swing at him.

Reid had done what he often did when caught out on his tendency to hold forth on a topic, settling back in on himself with an apologetic smile. He watched the exchange between the brothers with a somewhat puzzled expression.

Sam turned toward his brother, and Dean fell into what Hotch recognized as a defensive fighting stance before relaxing when Sam ignored him and returned his attention to Reid.

"Don't pay any attention to him," Sam commanded, patting the pockets of his jeans. "I've got my stuff in the car. I'll..." He stopped, looking now at Luke. "Is it... Can I go get something out of the truck?" He swiveled to Hotch, asking for permission.

Hotch thought about it for a second. "Sure."

Sam gave him a quick, dimpled smile, evidently pleased to be trusted. "Thanks." He glanced a Reid. "You coming?"

Spencer scrambled to his feet. "Sure," he said eagerly.

The two men walked out of the sheriff's office, Spencer starting to talk again animatedly, Sam's head tilted down to listen attentively and nodding his agreement.

The whole group watched them go.

"Sam's..." Derek trailed off. _...not what I expected_ , Hotch filled in for him.

"Smarter than you thought?" Dean finished the statement a different way. The tone was casual, but the expression was tight with defensiveness.

"Yeah," Derek admitted, but Hotch knew that was only part of it. They'd all read the files on the Winchesters that Garcia had managed to uncover. But that was never the same as encountering someone in person. Derek didn't drop Dean's gaze, but met it head on.

Dean broke the contact, eyes sliding to the window at the front of the office, where Sam and Reid could just be seen pulling a computer satchel and a stack of papers out of a well-used looking pickup. "Sammy got a full ride to Stanford," he said. "Was planning on law school, but..." He shrugged – not uncaring, resigned. "Shit happened." He didn't say anything for a second, then looked back at Derek. "He may look like a dopey kid, but he's got a pretty good head on his shoulders."

Hotch thought only an older brother could think Sam Winchester looked like a dopey kid. Hotch saw an intelligent, physically imposing, potentially lethal young man.

"Yeah," said Sweed, dryly, cocking an eyebrow at Hotch and shaking his head. "Dopey is exactly how people see Sam, Dean."

Even without knowing the Winchesters' background, Hotch would have suspected that Dean had been well-trained by someone with a law enforcement or military background; he moved with a grace and intent that translated into a physical assurance missing in the vast majority of civilians. And he was watchful, observant of his surroundings in ways that again pointed to an uncommon level of awareness. Seeing Sam now, Hotch recognized those same characteristics in the younger man. The fact that Sam had gotten into Stanford given the haphazard nature of his primary education had indicated the kid was intelligent. No one had ever thought Sam Winchester wasn't smart. But they may not have realized exactly how smart.

And Hotch couldn't help but wonder if and how they'd all underestimated the man across from him, as well.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Hotch has a slight sense of humour. It might give you a whiplash lol

Jo couldn't take it anymore.

"Hello?" Sam's voice sounded distracted.

"Sam, where _are_ you? You said you were on your way home hours ago!" Jo was trying hard not to sound hysterical, but she wasn't sure she was succeeding.

"Oh! Crap! Jo, I'm sorry, I..."

The babbling reassurances were not making her feel any better. He'd forgotten. He and his brother were in mortal danger, and he'd left her hanging, waiting, afraid...

"Where. Are. You." She gritted it across his apology, a slow fury beginning to churn in her belly.

"I'm... I- I'm at the sheriff's office. I..."

All the anger left her in a rush. "They captured you?" she breathed. "Honey, I'm..."

"Well, no." _No? Wha-...?_ Sam swallowed audibly on the other end of the phone. "I, uh, turned myself in."

Jo had no words.

"I figured something out," he hurried on in the stunned silence, "and we were going to need the feds help, so I just came in. I'm sorry I didn't call. I should have let you know or at least told you not to expect me. It's OK, though, alright? Don't worry. We've..."

Jo felt her mouth open and close a couple of times, unable to give voice to all the questions that were...

"Jo?"

Dean now. Were they allowing phones in the cell? Jo was having a hard time figuring out what was going on.

"Dean, what is going on?" Finally. _Words._

"Well, we're kind of working with the feds."

Jo couldn't tell if he was smug or annoyed. Maybe both. "Okaaaaaay," she said. "Does Luke know that?"

"Yeah, he's here."

"May I speak to him, please?" she asked as carefully as she could.

"Oh. Sure." Mercifully he took the phone away from his mouth before he yelled. "Luke! Phone!"

Given the close quarters of the sheriff's office, Jo wasn't sure why that had been necessary.

"Hello?"

"Hello," she responded evenly. Jo waited, knowing that the tone of her voice would (should) speak for itself.

"Ooooh," he said, and she heard the recognition of his failure in his own tone. "Hey."

"Yeah," she drawled. "Hey."

"So there have been some changes."

"Seems like," she agreed pleasantly.

He didn't venture a response for a moment. Then, "How mad are you?"

"Pretty," she admitted in the same reasonable tone.

"Babe, I'm really sorry. It just got insane, and I'm still in recovery mode. I promise I would have called at some point."

She mmmm'd unforgivingly.

"Sam turned himself in!" Luke protested, unrepentantly tossing Sam under the bus.

She heard a slightly muffled, "Hey! I told you...!"

But Luke spoke over the indignant voice. "How was I supposed to remember to keep you posted in the middle of my utter shock at that particular boneheaded move?"

Sam's voice got correspondingly louder in response.

"It's true, Jo." Dean again. She could hear Luke and Sam continuing their "discussion" in the background. "Sam waltzed into the station and turned himself it. That should really buy Luke some kind of break. Plus. You know. He's old, so..." He gave an undignified yelp that was surely a reaction to some sort of smack. Probably from Luke. "Sam...," Dean tried to go on.

"Oh, stop it," she huffed. "Y'all win. I'm not mad." And miraculously, she wasn't. She closed her eyes, letting the relief flow over her. "Are you all OK?"

"Mostly." Evidently Luke had regained custody of Sam's phone. "The boys aren't completely free yet."

"Tell me what is going on," she demanded.

"Right," Luke said. "Sorry. So. Sam thinks he's found a link between the original murders and these new ones. But he didn't have the means of connecting the current suspect with the killings. The feds have a, frankly, scary level of access to credit card records and traffic cameras that he thought might be helpful. We're hoping they'll be able to tie the suspect with the different locations involved."

Jo frowned to herself. "What's the link between the murders?"

Luke paused before saying, "Possibly we're dealing with the ghost of the first killer."

Jo absorbed that. "OK," she finally said. "Was that part of the explanation to the FBI?" she asked. And wondered what the reaction to that would have been.

"It was," Luke said blandly. "They're not really sure what to make of it as a theory. But we managed to convince them that it wasn't possible for Dean or Sam to have killed Amelia, so..."

"Or any of those women!" Jo interjected.

"Well, yeah. But that's going to take some additional evidence. I suspect that they're having their tech person check up on the boys, while they're trying to trace this Gabe kid."

"Where are they? Are they with you?"

"The boys are here," he said.

 _Well, duh_ , she thought, but didn't say. "No. The FBI."

"Oh. No. They're actually on their way back to the motel. Gonna grab some dinner, I think, and maybe regroup after everything they just learned. Matt and I are fixing to see if we can't find this Gabe kid and keep an eye on him until there's something to hold him on."

"Have you eaten?"

"No, but I'm fine. I'll grab something later."

Jo tsked disapprovingly, but didn't press. "What about Sam and Dean?"

"They could probably eat," he said dryly. There were noises of agreement in the background.

"Well, send 'em home. I'll have dinner..."

"Hon," Luke interrupted her. "They can't leave. They're off the hook for Amelia right now, but they're still under arrest."

Jo huffed, not liking that at all. "Fine. I'll bring them something, then. You'll leave the key?"

"It'll be where it always is."

"OK," she sighed. "Just be careful."

She could hear the smile in his voice, "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

When the team entered the diner, they were greeted by an unhappy-looking Jake.

"Y'all can have your usual booth," the boy said tightly before turning away.

Next to him, Hotch heard Emily mutter wearily, "Oh, this isn't going to be awkward at all."

In spite of his obvious displeasure, the kid brought them their coffees and waters promptly, sliding menus across the table to them. He walked off again without a word.

Prentiss sighed. Watched sadly as the boy stalked back to the kitchen.

"Emily," Hotch said softly.

"I know," she said, taking her eyes off Jake and looking down at her menu.

Hotch eyed his own menu without much interest. He and Morgan had eaten a late lunch, and he really wasn't that... _Oh. Wait. Chicken-fried steak._

The team didn't speak much as they ordered and waited for their food.

After Jake set their plates in front of them and refilled mugs and glasses, Hotch took a bite of chicken-fried steak and just managed not to moan in pleasure. _Seriously._ _How was it possible for something to taste this good? Fat,_ said the rational part of his mind. _Lots and lots of fat._ Hotch scowled. _Oh shut up_ , he told that part of his brain petulantly, cutting off another piece.

Morgan raised an eyebrow at him. "Would you like to be alone with your meal, Hotch?" he asked.

"You shut up, too," he mumbled, not bothering to explain when his colleague's eyebrow went up another notch.

Morgan snorted. "So," he started. "What are we thinking about these ghost and demon stories we're getting from Sweed and Rodriguez? It seems clear to me this Potter guy was on drugs. If he was high enough on meth, I guess you might – if you were so inclined or young and naïve enough – be able to imagine he was possessed, but how they could miss the drug angle..." He didn't finish his thought, waiting to see what the others would say.

Emily poked at the scrambled eggs she'd ordered. "I don't know," she admitted. She took a moment, apparently to gather herself, and said, "But they're not stupid, Morgan. Either of them."

"Did I say that?" Morgan bit out. "I didn't say that. I'm just saying that I don't buy this ghost theory they're trying to sell."

Emily raised an eyebrow at him. "So if they're not stupid, you're saying, what? That they're delusional?"

"Are you saying you believe them?" Derek shot back.

Hotch opened his mouth to intervene. It wasn't often that the team got cross-ways with each other like this.

But Reid beat him to it. "You know, this part of the country isn't called the Bible belt for no reason. A strict interpretation of the Christian scriptures certainly supports the reality of demons and angels. I would assume that the Sweeds are fundamentalists in their beliefs, and for that reason they would be susceptible to the Winchesters' own belief in demons." He paused thoughtfully. "Though the Winchesters themselves don't seem to be religious in any particular sense of the word. Ghosts don't play a part in the Bible. Though I think I remember a ..."

"Reid," Hotch interjected gently, hoping to get him back on point.

The younger man blinked and refocused. "I just mean that a belief in the supernatural doesn't necessarily mean some sort of psychological break. There's a surprisingly large portion of the population that, when asked, would say they believe in angels. Same thing, though to a lesser degree, with demons. I think probably the sheriff's acknowledgement that the family had believed before, but that they'd been shaken by finding demons to be 'really real,' is indicative of what most people would feel when faced with such a situation."

Derek was frowning at Reid. "So do you believe them or not?"

Reid tilted his head to one side as he considered. "I believe that they believe," he said. "And I see no indication that any of the Sweeds I've encountered so far or Deputy Rodriguez, for that matter, are either stupid or delusional."

Derek raised an eyebrow at him. "And?" he prodded.

Reid shrugged. "I don't know," he said, apparently unconcerned, and dug back into his chicken-fried steak.

The look Morgan gave Hotch said clearly, "Please tell me _you're_ still sane."

Hotch put down his fork and rubbed a hand down his face. "To be honest, I'm not sure what I think either," he admitted. And they still hadn't addressed the issue of the Winchesters themselves.

Morgan's eyebrow arched. Again.

"I'm not saying I believe it," Hotch said. "Just... " He stopped. "I need to think the whole thing through." He looked at Derek, meeting his eyes soberly.

Morgan nodded, but the frustration was clear in both his expression and his tone. "Yeah. OK."

They finished the rest of their meal in silence.

There were cases that did this to them sometimes, wore them down and hollowed them out, made them question what they believed and why. Hotch wasn't sure exactly how this particular case had gotten them to this place, though. The killings were horrific, sure, and the frustration was there given how little progress they'd really made. But that wasn't uncommon for their team. Still. It was unsettling to find himself questioning the profile of an unsub and to have that same unsub sitting across the table telling him about ghosts and demons and things other than humans that go bump in the night.

Hotch sighed and focused his attention on his meal again. When the bill came, Hotch reached for it without much thought.

"Sam and Dean would never do what you think they've done."

The words were offered quietly, and Hotch looked up, startled, to see Jake watching him, fingers still holding the edge of the ticket he'd been giving to Hotch. The boy's eyes slid around the booth to each of the other agents sitting there.

"I know you don't believe me," he went on. "But it's true."

Hotch studied the boy next to him. He was reminded abruptly of Jake's reaction earlier that afternoon when Derek had been talking about putting the Winchesters away for the murder of Amelia and the other women. They'd assumed the boy's sudden clumsiness and hurried exit from the table had been grief over Amelia, but it hadn't been, Hotch realized now. It had been fear for the Winchesters.

"What makes you so sure?" Hotch asked. He was interested to see what Jake would say. And wondered if he'd mention the demon his uncle had spoken about.

The kid blinked, clearly not having expected to be asked. "Because that's not who they are," he said, uncertain, but earnest now. "They're not... They're... like, heroes, you know?"

"Heroes, huh?" Derek said archly, earning himself an angry look from Jake before the boy glanced back at Hotch. Expecting mockery from that corner as well.

But Hotch just waited, keeping his expression neutral until the kid responded, even if it was still with a scowl.

"They save people. From..." Jake stopped, biting his lip. "They saved Tommy once. Did you know that?"

"Your dad mentioned something," Hotch conceded.

"The man who took Tommy. He would have killed him." The boy's voice shook slightly at the memory. "But Sam was there. Sam protected him. Got him out. And Dean..." Jake swallowed heavily. "Dean knew what to do. He..." The boy hesitated.

"Knew what to do with a demon?" Hotch prompted quietly. There was no one around them, but Jake still started visibly, nervously casting his eyes toward the people at the front of the diner.

"Uh... I..."

"Your uncle told us," Hotch said, looking to reassure. "But he also said he didn't really see anything." He waited. "Did you?"

The boy nodded haltingly, face blanched white. "Yeah," he whispered.

"What did you see?" Emily asked softly.

Jake glanced at her and cleared his throat before he said, huskily, "Sam. Pinned to the wall. His... his feet weren't touching the ground, and he... he couldn't move. And M- Mr. Potter. He had...black eyes. Not, not like bruises, but his actual eyes were all black. And he... he wasn't..." The boy's voice had started to shake again. "He was... evil. The thing that was inside him. It was evil. You could feel it."

Hotch hesitated, not sure where he wanted to go with this conversation.

"How did Sam get free?" Reid now, brow furrowed.

Jake shook his head. "I'm not sure exactly. Dean. Dean had a..." here he blushed bright red, "a spell or something. It trapped the demon, and it screamed and... Sam fell."

"Did you see the exorcism?"

Jake shook his head again. "No. Dean made us take Sammy and get out. He didn't want us to stay, but... when we got back to the car, Sam was scared for Dean and he... he wanted us to go help. So Michael went. Michael saw it and... he exorcised it. Tommy and I got Sam in the car and..."

"Your brother exorcised it? The demon?" Hotch asked.

Jake nodded. "H- He said it was, like, loose or something and was beating up Dean, so he picked up this book Dean had and started reading what Dean had been reading. He said Dean got it pinned down and then it, it... He said all this black smoke came out of Mr. Potter's mouth and, like, rushed away. Not, dispersed like real smoke, but kind of, like zoomed off. Like it was alive."

Hotch arched an eyebrow at this. Couldn't stop himself.

"I know," Jake whispered. "I know. It sounds... But Michael said. It was real. He..."

"How was everything?"

The whole group jumped, turning startled eyes toward Jo, who had approached without anyone noticing. Her expression was chilly as she scanned the group, but it softened noticeably when her glance landed on her nephew.

"Jake, sweetheart, will you go help Marge bus those tables? Then tell her I'm going to need you."

"'K," he agreed. He turned back toward Hotch, though, before he actually obeyed. "I..."

"Go on now, baby," Jo said. There was no room for argument in her tone, and Jake nodded jerkily as he slanted her a glance and hurried off.

"I won't have you interviewing my children," Jo said icily. The look Hotch got was as hard as any he'd encountered over the years. "Is that clear?" she asked.

"Absolutely." Hotch felt his hands coming up almost of their own accord, trying to placate. "I promise you it wasn't meant to be an interview," he said, hoping to reassure her. "I just... He said something to defend Dean and Sam, and I admit I was curious, so I asked him a couple of questions. It won't happen again."

The tightness in her face eased somewhat, and she nodded her acceptance of this. For a long moment she didn't say anything, fingers reaching out to smooth the bill and its accompanying credit card lightly before picking up both.

"Did he tell you they were heroes?" she asked quietly, eyes skimming across the room to her nephew.

"Yes," said Prentiss, just as softly. "He did."

Jo nodded, eyes coming back to meet Emily's somberly. "Good."

* * *

"This _sucks_ ," Dean grumbled, continuing to glare at the door into the main office the same way he had for the last 45 minutes.

"Yeah," said Sam from his spot on the other end of the cot. "I think you've mentioned that."

Dean transferred his unhappy stare to Sam.

"What, man?" Sam asked. "It's not _my_ fault."

"If you hadn't been such a _dumbass_ and turned yourself in, you could've at least been out tracking down..."

Sam tuned Dean out as his brother went on and on and... Sam had already heard this tonight. A couple of times.

Finally, Dean fell silent again.

Then, "When do you think Jo will get here with dinner?"

Sam shrugged. "Depends on what she's making, I guess."

Dean sighed. "Yeah." A couple of beats. "Dude, this _sucks_."

Miraculously, Sam managed _not_ to reach across the bed they were slouching on and pummel his brother into silence. He gritted his teeth. "What do you think Merley's attached to?" Sam asked instead. Maybe if he could get Dean distracted...

Dean sighed irritably, recognizing the tactic, but still taking some time to think about the question. "I don't know," he admitted. "I'd say the car, but there was nowhere near the EMF activity in the Mustang that we saw on the body or at the latest dump site." He snapped his fingers in remembrance. "Sammy, there was ectoplasm in the grass around where Amelia was left."

Sam sat up. "You hadn't told me that," he said.

"Forgot."

"Huh," Sam said musingly

"Yeah. Whatever it is, it's powerful." Dean chewed thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. "I can't figure how something that leaves ectoplasm at one place barely registers on the reader in the object we think it's actually connected to."

"Yeah," Sam agreed.

They sat in silence for awhile.

"Maybe there was something left in the car the kid is carrying around?" Sam offered.

"Maybe," Dean said. "But he was pretty creeped out by the body – tore out all the seats – seems unlikely he'd keep some other souvenir, you know?"

"Yeah."

The door from the office swung open. "Hello?"

"Hey!"

It was Jo with Jake.

"Y'all hungry?"

"Starving," Dean said dramatically.

Jo smiled, glancing back at Jake, who approached the cell with a key and a large paper bag.

"Good," she said. "We brought lots." She turned back into the main room. "We'll set up out here."

Dean grinned as he exited the cell, taking the bag from Jake, opening it to sniff appreciatively. "Awesome."

"Where's Tommy?" Sam asked, trailing after his brother.

Jo was putting plates out at Luke's desk. "Michael asked for emergency leave from camp, so he's home with him. I didn't want Tommy to..." she trailed off.

Both Sam and Dean nodded their understanding.

"It's just been so much for him," she tried to explain. "I was afraid seeing y'all in jail..."

"You don't need to apologize for trying to protect him," Sam said.

"What about Jake?" Dean asked with a wry smile and a tilt of his head toward that boy. "You not afraid of scarring _him_?"

Jo raised an eyebrow. "Oh, honey," she said indulgently, "We all know I don't love Jake nearly as much as I do Tommy."

Jake didn't even bother to roll his eyes. "I'm not a little kid, Dean," he said impatiently. "I can handle a lot more than y'all think I can."

"'course you can," Dean agreed carelessly. He peered into the bottom of the bag. "Are there rolls?"

After dinner they cleaned up, and Jo put what was left of the meal in a small fridge hidden the coat closet.

Sam sighed as he considered being locked back in the cell.

"I'm so sorry, y'all," Jo said, giving them both fierce hugs. "I hate having to do this, but..."

"We know," Dean said. "It's not your fault."

"I'll do it, mom," Jake said with an evil jostling of his eyebrows at the Winchesters and a noisy jingling of the keys.

Jo laughed. "OK. But try not to enjoy it so much." She turned back to the front. "Let's go check on Miss Book before we head home, OK, Jakey?" she called absently, packing up the last of the utensils.

"OK," Jake agreed. He made a show of clanging the cell door shut behind the Winchesters. Then, with a quick glance over his shoulder at his aunt, quietly unlocked the door again, propping it slightly open. "See you in the morning," he said cheerfully with another wicked grin. He didn't let the main door into the office catch either.

Dean gave Sam a serious look. "I love that kid."

Sam smiled.

The truth was, they weren't going anywhere. In fact, they didn't leave the cell. But knowing they _could_ made all the difference.

They settled again on the cot.

"Where do you figure Gabe's staying?" Dean asked suddenly.

"What?"

Dean sat up. "Where's he staying?" Dean looked over at his brother. "He's not at the hotel. His car's at Mac's." He asked the question again pointedly. "Where's he staying?"

Sam's brow furrowed. "Huh." He thought for a second. "Is there a cot or anything at Mac's? Maybe he's letting him camp out there?"

"I don't think so," Dean said after a minute. "I'm pretty sure it's just the main office and the garage."

"How big is that lot?" Sam wondered.

Dean stood abruptly. "Big, man." He nodded, eyes lighting at the realization. "It's big. And overgrown. There may be out buildings..." He was already heading for the door.

Sam surged up after him, almost tripping on his brother's heels in his haste. "Dude, we can't just..."

"I know," Dean bit out impatiently. "Where are our phones?" He was through the cell door and into the office. "We'll call Luke." Dean was flinging open drawers in Matt's desk and then Luke's. "Where the hell...? Did the feds...?"

"Here." Sam picked up Dean's phone, which had been lying in plain sight on top of Matt's desk, and tossed it to him.

Grunting in annoyance, Dean caught it, pressing the number for Luke and putting it to his ear. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

It took Sam a beat to realize the question was for him. He didn't pause in his efforts. "Looking for city plats." He was rifling through one of the large filing cabinets in the corner. "If we can find descriptions of the lots, maybe we can..."

"Crap!" Dean's frustrated growl turned Sam toward him. "Not even voicemail for some reason."

"Try that one," Sam said in response, jerking his head toward the other filing cabinet.

It took them an agonizing 20 minutes to find what they were looking for.

"Here."

Sam winced at the sound of tearing paper as Dean jerked the map free of the drawer. "Dude," he protested.

"I got it, I got it," Dean returned gruffly, though he slowed down enough to ease the last bit of it free more carefully.

They spread the map over one of the desks.

"Where are we?"

They were both studying the drawing with canted heads, trying to get their bearings.

"There," Sam said, jabbing his finger at the spot where the sheriff's office was located.

"Yeah." Dean squinted. "OK, so, here's Mac's." His finger started at the outline of the old filling station right off the street and traced back into the deep lot. Two faint squares sat at the far edge of the property. His eyes met Sam's.

"Call again."

With a nod, Dean moved slightly away.

Sam continued to stare at the map. He wasn't sure how old the drawing was, but in his head he started trying to match each lot with its current occupant: Next to Mac's was the beginning of a series of attached store fronts that ran most of the length of the main street: a woman's clothing store that Sam had barely ever glanced at; after that, a used book store that Sam _was_ familiar with, having spent more than a few hours over the years browsing for entertainment; next came the drugstore, an antique store, the post office; and finally the sheriff's office.

Sam could hear Dean leaving a brusque, urgent-sounding message for Luke (voicemail must be working again) as Sam brought his attention back to Mac's position on the map. Across the side street in the other direction was the Tea Cozy. Next came... He stopped, eyes darting back to the rectangle outlining the Tea Cozy property.

Another deep lot.

And at its rear—Miss Book's house.


	15. Chapter 15

"Dean!" Sam's exclamation brought Dean's head around sharply. He hung up on Luke's voicemail and strode toward the desk where Sam was watching him anxiously.

"What?" Dean looked down at the map, eyes automatically going to the place Sam's finger was indicating.

"Miss Book's house is across the street from the back of Mac's property."

Dean frowned, not understanding.

"Jo and Jake were headed to Miss Book's from here," Sam said impatiently.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me."

But Sam was shaking his head. "I heard her on the way out. She told Jake..."

On a growl, Dean jerked his phone to his ear again. He remembered now. God _damn_ it.

No answer. "Voicemail." He left a message.

"Try Jake," Sam ordered.

But Dean was already on it.

The strains of Lyle Lovett's _That's Right (You're Not from Texas)_ vibrated along the surface of Luke's desk.

" _Damn_ it!" Dean said. His eyes went to the gun cabinet in the corner. "Was the car out front when you got here?" he asked Sam.

"No," Sam answered, following Dean's gaze. "Dean..."

"I'm not staying here, Sam," Dean bit out, already moving toward the locked container.

"I know that," his brother said, right on his heels. "I'm not either. But we can't just break out."

Dean was focused on the lock. "Can you pick that?"

Sam crouched down, examining the opening closely and running a light fingertip over the slot. He looked around. "Paper clip?"

"Yeah." Dean had snagged one as he'd passed Matt's desk. He dropped it into Sam's outstretched hand.

"I'm just sayin'," Sam went on as he worked.

"I know," Dean said. "But I can't get Luke or Matt. Who are we supposed to tell?"

"The feds?" Sam suggested.

"Dude," Dean protested.

"Dean, they're the ones that are going to go ballistic if they come back, and we're not here. I'm pretty sure leaving a note won't cut it with them," he said wryly. "There," he added and swung the doors open.

Dean caught the edge of the door and viewed the selection. He hated not having his own equipment, but they were going to have to make do. He was pleased to see two shotguns, checking the first barrel before he handed it off to Sam. He cracked the second one open, even knowing that Luke was a man who took good care of his weapons.

"We might be overacting," Sam ventured, doing his own inspection of the weapon he'd been given before asking, "Shells?"

"Yeah," Dean said, reaching into the bottom of the cabinet. "You want to take that chance?" He didn't bother to check for Sam's response. He knew what it would be. His hand paused, hovering over the boxes of ammunition. "Look."

Sam peered over his shoulder. "Salt?"

It was marked in wide Sharpie letters across a couple of boxes. Dean grinned as he grabbed both. "He was paying attention," he said.

Sam rolled his eyes. "There's lots of uses for salt rounds, Dean," he said repressively.

Dean waved the explanation away. _Whatever_.

When they were settled with weaponry, there was no more excuse.

"Call," Sam commanded.

On a scowl, Dean picked up the office phone and dialed the motel's front desk.

"Hey, Tammi, it's Dean. Could you connect me with one of the feds' rooms?" He didn't pause for a breath in the hopes that he could avoid a conversation with the chatty part-time receptionist.

"Oh, hey, Dean! How you doin', sugar? You been... oh, wait. What do you know? Here's one of those federal agents now!"

"Great," Dean sighed.

"Morgan."

 _Perfect._ He grimaced at Sam. "Uh, hey, Agent Morgan." In the interest of not pissing the feds off, Dean tried for cordial.

"Winchester? What the _hell_ are you ...?"

Dean willingness to try for polite didn't last long. He cut across Morgan. "Look, man, I can't get ahold of Luke or Matt, and we think Jo and Jake may be in trouble. Sam and I are headed to Abigail Book's house. There are out buildings at the back of the lot where Mac's garage is. And they're right across the street from Miss Book's. Jo and Jake were on their way over there after they left here, they..."

"What do you mean you're _headed_ somewhere? You're under arrest, you can't..."

Dean talked over Morgan's rising voice. "This is a courtesy call," Dean clipped. "You wanna jaw about it? Tough. I don't have time. Come or don't come. I don't give a rat's ass." And he hung up the phone.

Sam was watching him.

"What?" Dean asked belligerently.

"Nothin'," said his brother.

* * *

"God damn it," Morgan ground out, slamming the phone back in its cradle and ignoring the disapproving frown from the young woman across the desk.

He pulled his own phone out of his pocket. Hit speed dial.

"Hotch. Morgan. Where are you?"

"Almost at the sheriff's. What's wrong?"

"I just got a call from Dean Winchester. He said he and Sam are on their way to Abigail Book's?" It was a question because Derek had no idea who the woman might be.

There was a momentary silence on the other end of the phone.

"Why?" Sharp.

"He said Mrs. Sweed and one of the kids were on their way there. And something about buildings at the back of the lot where Gabe Wills has been working on his car. Evidently this Book woman lives across the street."

"OK." There was the muffled sound of Hotch talking urgently to Emily, who Morgan knew was driving. "We're on our way. Meet us there."

* * *

"You ready?" Dean's voice was barely audible.

Sam gave a tight nod.

Carefully, Dean eased the door open slightly, shotgun aimed steadily through the narrow opening. In a crouch, Sam ducked under the barrel of his brother's gun, slowly pushing the door further open. His own weapon followed the swing of the door, covering the rest of the room as it came into view.

Empty.

The Sweeds' suburban had been parked outside, engine cool, the house completely dark. The shiver up Sam's spine as he'd taken in the still, silent structure would have been echoed along Dean's, he'd known.

Not good.

Eyes catching Dean's, Sam nodded and moved swiftly across the kitchen toward the entry that led into what was presumably a living room. He took up position to the left of the door. Behind him, Dean moved cat-footed to his side before laying a brief hand on Sam's shoulder and slipping down the hall.

Sam had just started to follow when Dean paused at the threshold. His brother's sharply in-drawn breath quickened Sam's heart rate and his footsteps.

"Jake," Dean breathed.

Sam took the last few steps at a run, but skidded to a stop when Dean's hand hit him center-chest.

"Wait," Dean rasped.

Teeth gritted in protest, Sam still obeyed, dropping back into a crouch, gun held steadily as he checked the shadows around the room, knowing Dean was doing the same. He could see the crumpled shape of a body that could only be Jake, coltish legs and skinny arms all askew, dark hair and a darker smear of a sluggishly reflective liquid obscuring the boy's face and neck.

"Dean," Sam whispered, hearing the sound escape more as a moan.

"I know." Dean's voice was every bit as pained. "Do you...?"

"No," Sam said, already moving.

Dean beat him there.

* * *

Emily had a vague idea of where Abigail Book's house was. She knew where the garage was, and Hotch had said Morgan had said "across the street" from the back of the property where the garage was located. She hadn't been the one to visit the garage, but she thought she remembered seeing an older house in that general area that she'd been charmed by.

Sure enough, there it was. The only vehicle she could see was an old suburban that she recognized from the hotel as the Sweeds'. She didn't see a car the Winchesters might have come in, but it was close enough to the sheriff's office that they could easily have run the distance.

"Prentiss, you and Reid take the back. I'll go through the front. Check your targets. We have the potential for three civilians on the property."

Vaguely Emily wondered whether Hotch realized he hadn't included the Winchester in his count.

Nodding, both Prentiss and Reid checked their weapons before sliding around the corner of the house toward the small screen-porch.

They moved quickly into the darkened house, through the kitchen and the long hall into an open area that...

"Hey, bud, hey." Dean Winchester was kneeling next to the huddled form of a boy on the floor, whispering softly. One hand rested against the bloody cheek of the child; the other held a shotgun firmly in its grasp.

"Dean, he's not..." Sam's voice wavered momentarily.

"Give him a second, Sammy," Dean said, steadying, Emily realized, not just himself and his brother, but possibly Jake, as well, who stirred jerkily.

"Hey!" Sam now, reaching out to comfort. "Hey, kiddo. It's OK; it's..."

Hotch stepped into the room, gun pointed at the floor, but eyes alert. "What's the situation?"

The Winchesters' heads and weapons came up abruptly. They dropped just as suddenly when they recognized the intruder.

"We don't know," Sam said, urgently. "Jake and Jo were going to check on..."

There was a soft moan from the space between the coffee table and the sofa.

Sam moved in tandem with Emily, stepping forward and shifting the table.

"Miss Book," Sam said with a glance at his brother.

"Damn it," Dean growled. "Where's Jo?" he demanded of the room at large. He looked down at the boy. "Where's Jo, Jakey?" The hand against the kid's cheek massaged roughly, then slapped gently. "Jake. Where's Mom?" he asked.

Jake didn't respond in words, but his movements were strengthening and an unhappy sound escaped. Dean continued to prod at him, offering encouragement, urgency bleeding through.

"Reid," Hotch barked at the same time Dean said, "Sam."

Both of the younger men nodded, understanding immediately and starting to search.

Hotch looked at Emily. Emily nodded, too. _I've got her._ Hotch headed in a direction different than either Reid or Sam had taken.

"Miss Book?" Emily asked it gently, chafing the woman's wrists and tapping insistently at her face. She couldn't see any obvious wounds, but the woman moaned, fragile looking hand coming up to her head. Gently, Emily moved a gray curl off the woman's forehead and saw the lump, paper-thin skin broken and mottled. "It's OK," Emily soothed. "Come on," she said.

Across the room, Jake was starting to rouse, protesting noises, querulous and confused. "D'n?"

"Yeah, kiddo, hey. How're you feeling? You OK?" The relief in Dean's voice was palpable. "What happened?" There was no immediate answer from the boy. "Jake?" More insistent now, getting an arm around Jake and starting to get him upright. "Come on, kid. What happened? Where's Mom?"

"M'm?" Jake didn't seem to be making connections quite yet, just repeating what Dean had said. Then. A gasp and a cry. "Mom! Mom! Dean!" Jake had turned frantically in Dean's arms, hands grabbing. "He had her! I mean. He had Miss Book. He... she was..." Jake looked wildly around, catching sight of the older woman with Prentiss. "She was crying and Mom... Mom..." His eyes moved off Miss Book and ricocheted around the room. "Where's Mom? Dean, where's Mom?"

Hotch was back, and he crouched down next to Jake and Dean. He exchanged a look and a brief head shake with Dean. "We don't know where she is, Jake," he said calmly. "But we're going to find her," he assured the boy. "We're going to need your help, though, alright? I need you to tell me everything you remember. Did you recognize the man who was here?"

"No," Jake whispered. He inched up straighter, Dean supporting him when the boy made a quiet sound of pain, hand coming up to his head.

"What did he look like?" Hotch asked. He reached out a hand and placed it on Jake's shoulder. Steadying. Questioning.

Jake took a trembling breath. "I don't know. Young, I guess? Like Michael's age? He had... he had brown hair?"

"Wills," Dean said and Hotch nodded his agreement.

"Did he say anything, Jake?" Hotch asked gently. "Anything at all that might give us an idea of where he might have gone?"

"N- no," Jake stammered. "I don't... I don't think so. It, it happened so fast. The door was unlocked, so we came in, and... and when we got back here, he was... standing over Miss Book and she was crying and Mom... Mom..." He faltered. The hand that had stayed twisted in Dean's t-shirt tightened to the point that Emily could see the white bones of Jake's knuckles from across the room. "Mom yelled at him. Told him to get away from her. She just... she ran over there and she... pushed him. Shoved him. Like, really hard. And he kind of fell and I was going over there, too, to help. To make sure he... And he looked up. And he looked..."

"Were his eyes black, Jake? Was he possessed?" Dean asked it low and urgent.

 _Demon?_ Emily wondered uncertainly, caught off-guard. Dean had only mentioned ghosts before.

But Jake was shaking his head, hunching closer to Dean. "No. No," he said emphatically. "But. Something was wrong. Like. Off. He..." The boy fumbled for the right words and seemed unable to come up with any. "I don't know," he almost cried. "I don't..."

"'s OK, Jake," Dean tried to soothe. "But he didn't say anything? You don't remember him saying anything that might...?" Dean had to double-check. At Jake's frantic head-shake, he looked across at Emily. "Is she...?"

But Miss Book was still not with them. After her initial moan, Miss Book had lapsed back into unconsciousness, and Emily's attempts to revive her hadn't made any difference. Though, admittedly she'd been distracted the last couple of minutes.

"Miss Book?" Emily returned her attention to the woman she was supposed to be tending.

"Try this." Sam now, handing her a damp cloth. He had knelt down beside them. "We couldn't find Jo," he told Emily softly. "Hey, Miss Book," he said gently, laying his palm against the older woman's cheek. "It's Sam Winchester, ma'am. Can you wake up for me?" He patted her face insistently.

Emily pressed the cool rag against the back of the woman's neck, hoping to speed up the process. Glancing again at Dean and Jake, she saw that Dean had a similar-looking dish towel held against Jake's temple, trying to staunch the blood that was still tracing its way down the side of the boy's face.

Jake was looking at Sam. "You didn't find Mom?" he asked, voice cracking.

"No, we didn't, kiddo," Sam acknowledged gently. He sent a quick glance at Reid before his attention went to his brother and then to Hotch.

"He had her," Jake said said shakily. "When Mom went at him, he pushed Miss Book away and... He grabbed her. I don't... Something hit me, and..." He lifted his hand toward the spot where Dean had the towel.

"Hold this," Dean said to Jake, guiding the kid's hand the rest of the way up to the cloth. "Press as hard as you can."

Jake nodded unsteadily, obeying with a somewhat ragged draw of breath. "Dean..."

"Shhh," Dean soothed. "'s OK, buddy," he said. And it looked to Emily like he pressed his lips briefly against the side of the boy's head. "It's gonna be OK."

Dean stood. When he looked at his brother, Sam followed suit, moving after Dean even as the other man shifted his grip on the shotgun he'd picked up again and started for the door.

"Stop," Hotch ordered. When Dean obeyed, pausing at the threshold and turning back, his face was creased with desperation and impatience. But Hotch ignored it, asking calmly, "What are you planning?"

"The buildings across the street," Dean said shortly, jerking his head in that direction.

Hotch's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You know where the entrances and exits are?"

"We will when we get there."

Nodding his understanding, Hotch gestured for Emily to rise and she did, carefully setting the older woman down. He looked at Jake. "Call 911 and when your uncle or Agent Morgan arrive, tell them where we are."

Jake opened his mouth to protest, and it looked like he was going to try to get to his feet. "I'm..."

"You're not," Dean broke in, interpreting the boy's movement the same way Emily had. "I mean it, Jake. You stay here. You got me?"

"Dean," he whispered, eyes filling.

In three easy steps, Dean was back across the room, crouching down in front of the boy. He set the gun down again and put both hands on the kid's shoulders. "We'll find her, Jake. Me and Sammy. We'll find her, and we'll bring her back."

Jake's eyes went helplessly to Sam, who answered every bit as seriously as his brother had. "We will, Jake. We'll find her."

The kid blinked somewhat dazedly and nodded. "'K," he agreed, looking back at Dean.

When Dean rose, Emily took his place kneeling down next to the boy. "Jake?" she asked quietly, smiling at him gently when his eyes wandered over to her. She handed him her phone and the cloth she'd been using on Miss Book. "After you call, I need you look after Miss Book." She reached out to touch his face. "Can you do that for me? She's going to need someone to take care of her until the ambulance gets here."

Jake gave another dazed sort of look and a hesitant nod; then he took a deep, shuddering breath. And the nod got firmer, the expression on his face more focused. "Y- Yes, ma'am. I... I can do that."

He raised the phone with a shaking hand, staring at its face, looking for the numbers he needed.

Emily rested her hand again briefly against the unbloodied side of his face before she climbed to her feet. "Good boy," she said, softly. "Thank you."

When she straightened, Emily saw that Dean was watching her, the look on his face impossible to decipher. But the slight nod that accompanied it seemed to be one of approval.

Hotch spoke to Dean. "You have a better idea where we're going than I do. Lead the way."

And turning on his heel, Dean took off at a run.


	16. Chapter 16

The Winchesters had moved with a speed and purpose Hotch found both impressive and a little disconcerting. It wasn't often he felt pushed when trying to keep up with civilians. But then, these men weren't really civilians, he was realizing.

Dean stayed in the lead as the team crossed the street and began to move through the surprisingly dense undergrowth at the back of the mechanic's lot. Sam was a pace behind his brother, and Hotch saw a long arm shoot out, pointing toward an entrance to the building they approached. Dean nodded, already changing course slightly.

When they reached the building, Hotch saw that it was actually another garage, large doors to the left for vehicles, the door they stood beside for humans. There was no light or other indication that the structure might be occupied. Dean tested the knob and it didn't turn.

Crouching down, Winchester examined the lock. He looked back at his brother. "You still have that paper clip?"

Sam was digging in his pocket, and pulled out a misshapen piece of wire, handing it quickly to Dean.

Emily gave Hotch a rueful glance when, a few seconds later, the door swung open. "Impressive," she whispered, still managing an appropriate level of dryness in her tone.

Dean quirked a grin (or possibly a leer) at her before pocketing his lock-picking tool and easing through the opening.

At first, Hotch thought that the only light in the building came from the pale moonlight that filtered through dirty windows high in the walls. But as he continued deeper into the space and his eyes adjusted, he realized that there was a dim glow in the back of room, light leaking beneath and around a decrepit-looking door. Dean and Sam turned, both with mouths open to speak, when the long, thin wail of a heart-stopping, strangely breathless-sounding scream split the air. Hotch saw the blood drain from the faces of the Winchesters and they whirled, the whole group pelting toward the sound.

Sam reached the door first, barely pausing before bringing up his foot and kicking the it in. Dean stepped through the disintegrated wood, shotgun at the ready, Sam and the agents right behind him.

"Freeze!" Hotch barked.

The team had dispersed around Dean, weapons aimed at Gabe Wills who was completing a deep cut across the chest of Jo Sweed. Though he was clearly startled, the boy quickly shifted the knife from its work to the woman's throat, one hand bending her head back.

The sheriff's wife was tied to a wooden chair, hands behind her, ankles strapped to the legs. The sleeveless blouse she'd been wearing had lost several of its buttons, and there was an angry-looking gash across her collar bone, running jaggedly from shoulder to shoulder. Two inches below it, a second cut had just been made, blood only beginning to run freely out of it. From the bodies of the previous victims, Hotch knew that the pattern, if the unsub had not been interrupted, would have continued, each cut biting deeper into flesh until the woman had been gutted alive.

But for now the torture had stopped. Jo made a pained noise when her neck was wrenched back, and Hotch shot a concerned glance at the Winchesters, afraid that one of them would do something reckless in reaction.

Both men flinched at the sound, but beyond that neither man moved. Hotch could see the tension and the rage coming off them in waves, but they were under rigid control.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was steady, and his lips tightened into nothingness at Sam's answering shake of his head.

_No shot._

"Gabe," Hotch said, keeping his voice as low and even as he could. "You need to put the knife down. This doesn't..."

When the boy's attention shifted to him, Hotch stopped. He felt an unexpected punch of _wrong_ in his gut.

Jake had said it just minutes before, and Emily had said it, too, after the interview with Wills—something _off_ , something...

"Hotch," Emily whispered.

"Yeah," he acknowledged. _I see it._

The boy's face was recognizable from his driver's license photo, from Hotch's own memory of the kid as he'd been interviewed by Emily just a couple of days before.

But the expression was subtly different, as if another person's visage had overlaid it. It wasn't obvious. And Hotch thought that maybe if you hadn't seen the kid before or weren't looking for it, you might not even notice it. Though Jake certainly had.

It was damned disturbing.

"Con? Conrad Merley?" It was Sam, voice even.

Wills's eyes began to shift toward Sam, but when he noticed Prentiss, they narrowed, his face altering, no longer wary from being discovered, but now filled with rage and a startling hatred.

Hotch saw Dean change his stance, as if to put himself between the kid and Emily.

 _Damn it,_ Hotch thought, not sure how to get the man to back off.

But Dean stopped when Emily spoke.

"Wow. Gabe. I wouldn't have thought you had it in you." Her aim didn't waver, and her voice dripped with condescension.

The knife that been held tightly against Jo's throat, eased down somewhat.

Hotch saw the moment the Winchesters registered the complete change in focus of the unsub. Sam's shotgun rose slightly, the man's face settling into a mask of concentration, ready to fire when he had a chance. The barrel of Dean's gun dipped at the same time, its direction shifting almost imperceptibly, and Hotch realized that while Sam was prepared to shoot Wills when he moved away from Jo, Dean was set to fire if he came after Emily. They hadn't so much as exchanged a glance.

"Bitch," Gabe spat, and Hotch was struck again by the unsettling mixture of familiar and unfamiliar in the sound.

Emily arched an eyebrow at him. "You're murdering helpless women, and _I'm_ the bitch?" she responded.

It happened so quickly, Hotch could barely take it in.

On an inhuman shriek, Wills lunged, knife nicking the throat of the woman it had been held against before being raised high, hurtling toward Emily. Sam fired, the round hitting the man center chest and knocking him back, off his feet and against a work bench with a clatter.

Almost simultaneous with the impact of the shot, there was a strange shift in the air around Gabe Wills.

Hotch would have attributed the change to the dust of the salt from the round (not buckshot, he found out later) hitting the kid, except that the whitish mist coalesced into a human form, the scream that had started in the kid's mouth, taking up residence in the black maw of the apparition as it swirled away from Wills and flickered furiously out of sight.

"Wh- wh- what?" Emily stuttered, face ashen. She'd retreated a step when Wills had started toward her, and she took an unsteady pace forward again.

"Jo!" Both the Winchesters leaped toward the slumped form of the woman in the chair.

"Reid," Hotch barked, but Reid was already moving toward the body of the unsub. He checked for a pulse, then, after a nod to Hotch indicating the man was still alive, aimed his weapon steadily at the Wills's slowly rising and falling chest.

"What the hell?" Emily finally got out.

"It was the ghost," Dean clipped, shotgun at the ready, standing guard over Jo as Sam crouched next to her, starting to work on the ropes at her hands and feet. "We need to get out of here before it can get itself back together. Sam, you got her?"

Sam was murmuring shaky-sounding reassurances to a softly crying Jo, but broke them off long enough to respond. "Almost."

"Get itself back _together_? What...?"

Another ear-piercing shriek rang through the air, and a form appeared between Hotch and Emily, one hand reaching for Prentiss, the other brandishing a knife. Hotch wasn't sure if the startled yelp came from him or Emily.

"Down!"

Both agents dropped without thought, and Hotch felt the light spatter of salt fall over him as the main blast from the shotgun flew overhead, dispersing the ghost.

"Holy crap," he heard Emily breathe next to him.

"Damn, he's quick," Dean panted. Hotch heard the snick of the shotgun barrel being opened, spent shells being expelled and new ones chambered.

"Agent," Dean said.

Emily and Hotch clambered to their feet, and Hotch barely had time to get upright before Sam's shotgun was chucked at him. He caught it with his left hand, shoving his revolver back into its holster so that he could accept the shells being thrust at him by Dean. He loaded the weapon with hands that shook.

"Sam," Dean clipped.

"I'm trying, man," Sam said. "Whatever it is he's connected to, it's gotta be here," he went on, tugging at the knots, frustration in his tone. "If he's this powerful, he..." Sam broke off when Jo cried out. "I'm sorry, Jo, I'm sorry. The knots are tight as hell, and I don't have my knife." He was looking around frantically.

"Damn, Sammy," Dean grunted. He bent down and slid a short blade out of the heel of his boot.

Hotch frowned. He was sure Morgan had taken a knife off the man when he'd been arrested.

Sam ignored the implied criticism, reaching over to snatch the utilitarian knife out of his brother's hand. He slipped the blade between the ropes and the skin of Jo's wrists.

This time the only warning was a blast of cold air.

Hotch fired before Merley managed to form fully, feeling a strange sort of satisfaction when the ghost winked out of sight. "What can it be tied to?" he asked tightly, reloading as quickly as he could.

Eyes widening somewhat in surprise, Dean answered, "We figure it's got to be something connected to the car, but we haven't..."

When the ghost reappeared for the third time, it was directly in front of Emily and already thrusting with the knife.

Hotch barely had time to register its presence when Dean shoved Emily sharply out of the way, stepping directly into the path of the enraged specter.

There was a grunt from Winchester, and then a horrible ripping sound under the gasping cry of the man as he went down. Jo screamed as she watched in horror from where she had only just been freed.

Hotch pulled the trigger without really aiming, shock and desperation contracting his finger spasmodically. Emily cried out when the salt round hit her as well as the spirit.

Merley disappeared.

"Nonononono." Somehow Jo was already there, on her knees next to Dean, who was curling into a ball, hands over his gut, blood already seeping between his fingers.

"Dean!" And Sam was there, too, pulling his brother's hands away from his belly, replacing them with his own. "Oh, God," he breathed, and Hotch saw the waver of real pain across the boy's face when he pressed down, eliciting a cry from Dean. "'s OK, man, I got you." He looked up at Hotch desperately.

For a second Hotch could only stand there, stunned.

"It's OK, baby, it's OK, baby," Jo was half-sobbing, trying to put her own hands with Sam's, leaning hard into Winchester's abdomen.

Another cry from Dean had Hotch blinking out of his shock. They needed to get out of here.

"If we leave, will it follow us?" Hotch asked, trying to focus on the matter at hand. He didn't look at Sam, keeping his eyes moving constantly in case the ghost returned. He saw Emily pick up the shotgun Dean had dropped, doing the same thing he himself was.

"I don't know," Sam answered frantically. He released the pressure on his brother's belly long enough to whip off his t-shirt. "If it's somehow tied directly to Wills, we'll bring it with us if we have him." Dean moaned when the hands returned, and Sam swallowed audibly, while Jo's murmured reassurances wavered, then steadied. "But we can't... we can't stay here. Dean..."

"Yeah," Hotch agreed. There was no getting around the fact that they were getting their asses handed to them by this thing. A strategic retreat – he hoped – might give them time to regroup. "Emily. Reid. Get Wills. We'll..."

Another piercing shriek and a sudden drop in temperature.

The ghost materialized again beside Emily, but Hotch was ready this time. The gun jerked as he fired. "Now!" he yelled.

Sam was working one arm under his brother's shoulders, the other just slipping under his knees. Jo faltered to her feet, face ashen under a smear of blood on her chin and a bruise across her cheekbone. Hotch stepped forward to get an arm around her.

Reid was lifting the inert form of Gabe Wills to his feet, Emily joining him. She'd gotten a shoulder under the man's armpit when she stopped, staring at the kid's midsection.

"It's a seatbelt," she said.

"What?" Sam, even with his arms full of his brother, turned toward her sharply.

"His belt." Emily set the shotgun down, propping it against her leg, reaching for Wills' waistband. She looked at Sam. "His belt is a freaking seatbelt from the Mustang."

Sam's eyes closed in what looked like recognition and relief.

Emily got the clasp released and jerked the belt roughly through its loops. "What do I do?" she asked.

"Burn it," Sam grunted. "It has to be burned. All of it."

 _Damn_ , thought Hotch, wondering vaguely how that was going to happen. He knew none of his team smoked, and they'd searched the Winchesters—though apparently that didn't mean they might not still have weapons hidden on them. He scanned the shelves around them. Then he spotted it. An acetylene torch on one of the work benches.

"Put him down," Hotch ordered Reid. He took his arm from around Jo, and she swayed slightly before she steadied. "Can you fire this?" he asked, holding out the shotgun.

She blinked at him. Hotch knew that the woman had to be in considerable pain and was probably in shock, but she nodded, taking the gun in blood-slicked hands. She wiped her palms down her jeans before raising the weapon in a competent hold, ready to shoot.

"Bring it here," Hotch told Prentiss, jerking his head in the direction he was headed.

Emily handed the shotgun to Reid and followed.

"Jo, Spencer, you need to be ready, cuz he's gonna be pissed when we try to torch him," Sam's voice was strained, and Hotch saw that he'd set Dean back down and was hunched over his brother, hands back in place trying to slow the flow of blood. He looked at Hotch and Prentiss. "You know how to use one of those things?" he asked them.

Hotch gave a soft snort. "I figure if I can get the thing lit, I can handle setting something on fire."

Sam's jaw tightened when Dean muttered something, glancing down and responding with, "Acetylene torch, looks like."

Hotch felt his eyebrow rise. _The man was conscious?_

Dean's lips moved again, and Sam nodded before he looked back at Hotch. "Be sure you turn the acetylene tank on before you open the valve," he passed on. "We don't have time to be real careful. Just get it lit."

Hotch reached for the torch, and the spirit swirled into view, intent again on Emily who ducked immediately as both Reid and Jo fired.

She tossed the belt onto the work bench. "He seems to be particularly unhappy with me," she huffed, almost sounding amused. "Give me the gun, Reid. You help Hotch. I'll stand over here and maybe distract him."

"That double blast may have weakened him more than a single round," Sam said, sounding grim. There was a disbelieving snort from Dean, and Sam said gently, "Shut up, man."

When the small blue flame finally came up on the end of the torch, Hotch cranked the gas some and set the fabric of the belt on fire before concentrating the intense flame on the metal of the buckle/catch.

Merley did not go out quickly or quietly.

The screams of the ghosts and shouts from Sam or Reid or Jo coupled the blasts from the shotguns in such confined quarters were incredibly disorienting. And even as the cloth of the belt melted and burned, Hotch felt what he thought might be despair creeping over him as he worked on the metal of the buckle. It was not going to burn easily. But, as the fire from the fabric finally took hold, turning the tough cloth to ash, there was a last eardrum-shattering shriek and the form of the ghost itself seemed to burst into flames and disappear.

The sudden quiet made Hotch's ears ring.

"Is it...?" Jo started faintly. She was standing over the Winchesters, the gun in her hands still remarkably steady.

"Yeah," Sam nodded. He cleared his throat. "It's gone."

"OK," Jo murmured vaguely. The gun she was holding began to tilt toward the floor. "OK," she said again. And went down without a sound.

It was at that moment, of course, that the sheriff, his deputy and Morgan stormed into the room.


	17. Chapter 17

Luke threw open the Bronco door after skidding to a stop in front of Abigail Book's house. Tense, increasingly frantic messages from Dean coupled with the semi-hysterical, broken conversation he'd actually managed with Jake had pressed the limits of Luke's self-control as he and Matt had raced back from the call they'd had to respond to that had taken them miles out of town.

The ambulance was already there, Miss Book on a stretcher and Jake being helped out of the house by one of the paramedics.

"Jake!"

The boy's head came up from its concentration on the ground in front of him as he'd made his way down the steps.

"Luke!" It was more of a sob than anything else, and Jake was already shaking off the assistance of the EMT, reaching for Luke.

Luke caught him before he went down, pulling his nephew tight against his chest. "Kiddo...," he started.

The blast of what had to be a shotgun had Luke dropping into a crouch, now tucking Jake under him. His head swiveled around trying to figure out where it had come from.

"It's from the back of Mac's lot," came the sharp voice of the EMT – Karen, Luke realized. "There've been intermittent shots for the last couple of minutes. We tried to call it in..."

"Yeah," Luke said. "Matt!" He handed Jake off to her as he rose, ignoring his nephew's protest. "Stay with Karen, Jake," he ordered, already running.

Matt was in stride next to Luke as they started across the street. They slowed when one of the big black Suburbans the feds were driving screeched to a halt in front of them.

Agent Morgan almost fell out of the driver's seat in his haste. "You..."

Another blast and then another, faint yells and more shots.

Without another word all three men took off in the direction of the commotion. Matt was in the lead as they raced toward the buildings coming into view through the undergrowth. By the time they reached the open exterior door of the garage, the shots had stopped, and Luke wasn't sure if that was good news or bad as he sprinted inside. The splintered lintel in the back of the garage was all the clue they needed and none of them slowed.

As they approached, Luke could see Jo through the open door, covered horrifyingly in blood, but standing, shotgun in hand. He saw her relax her stance, the barrel of the gun beginning to dip.

 _Oh, God, thank You, Jesus, please..._ He wasn't even sure what he was saying, his mind just stuttering its relief that she was upright and alive, its terror at the blood she was coated with.

"OK," he heard Jo say. "OK."

He'd just passed Matt and reached the door when the gun Jo had been holding clattered to the floor, and Luke watched his wife follow it to the ground.

* * *

Hotch found himself just watching when Jo Sweed began to slump to the floor. By the time it occurred to his exhausted, reeling brain that he should probably try to stop that, Morgan and the local officers were running through the door.

"Josie!" Sweed almost managed to catch his wife before she hit the floor. He dropped down next to her, eyes and hands skimming over her as he tried to determine how injured she was.

"We clear?" Rodriguez asked Hotch hoarsely, sharp eyes sweeping the room, gun still at the ready.

Hotch blinked, watching the deputy take in Wills's unconscious form first. When he noticed Dean and Sam were down, too, Rodriguez began to edge toward them. The deputy didn't drop his guard until Hotch nodded shakily.

"Yeah," Hotch said unsteadily. He could feel the tremors starting at his shoulders and making their way down his arms. Carefully, he set the acetylene torch down on the workbench before the shaking made him drop it. He sucked in a deep breath and leaned over, resting his hands on his knees, trying to steady himself.

"You OK?" Morgan asked. "What the hell happened?"

Hotch shook his head. "Just." He took another gulp of air and felt Emily's hand brush his shoulder before she sat down more abruptly than she seemed prepared for. She pulled her legs up and rested her forehead on her knees. When Hotch turned his head he could see Reid, frailer-looking than usual, take a faltering step in no particular direction. The younger man's hands were shaking, too, as he laid down the shotgun. "Give us a second."

Morgan gave Hotch a concerned glance. This was not usual for them, and Hotch knew that Morgan wasn't sure what to make of the team's obvious discomposure. But Morgan moved toward Wills, flipping the still-unconscious man over roughly and sliding restraints around his wrists.

At Hotch's assurance things were clear, Matt had gone to his knees next to Sam and Dean, using his phone to call for help, adding his own shirt and hands to Sam's attempts to stop or at least slow Dean's blood loss.

Hotch straightened and reached out to Emily, who had lifted her head at his movement. She took his hand, letting herself be pulled upright. She went directly to  
Sweed and his wife.

"I think she'll be fine," Prentiss told the man, crouching beside him. "I know it looks bad, but we got here before things had gotten too far." She paused. "And some of that... some of that is Dean's."

Sweed turned devastated, desperate eyes on her. He had his shirt off as well, pressing it against the bleeding wounds on his wife's chest. "Th- they don't seem too d- deep," he stuttered, clearly looking to the agent for additional reassurance. "But she..." He looked over at the man lying a couple of feet away. "Dean..."

"Mom?"

The horrified, whispered voice from the doorway turned everyone's head in that direction.

Morgan moved immediately from Wills and managed to get to Jake before anyone else had been able to really register the boy's presence.

"She's going to be OK, Jake," Derek tried to soothe. He stood directly in front of the kid, taking him gently by the shoulders and trying to block the two forms on the floor from his sight.

There was something of a scuffle as Jake tried to shove past the larger man. "Is she OK? Let me go! Luke, what...?"

Jake's agitation seemed to jolt the sheriff out of his own stunned response to his wife's condition. He looked over at Morgan and nodded. "It's OK," he said, and Morgan let the kid go.

"She's going to be OK, Jakey," Luke managed shakily as Jake stumbled toward him. "Come here and help me, OK, sweetheart?" He shifted to the side, and Jo made a pained sound, starting to come around again.

"Mom," Jake wavered as he joined his uncle. He took her hand, looking first to Luke, then down at Jo. "'s OK, mom, it's OK." His voice mimicked his uncle's tone, low and trying for steady.

Jo's eyes opened slightly, and she took in both Luke and Jake beside her. She didn't say anything, but tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes, trailing down her temples.

"Shhh, baby, shhh," Luke crooned. "You're OK. Jake's OK. It's all..."

Jo blinked heavily up at him, then tilted her head to the side. "Dean," she whispered.

"The ambulance is still on its way to the hospital with Miss Book," Matt said grimly. He was practically standing on his hands, he was exerting so much pressure against the wound on Dean's stomach. "We can't ... This isn't..." He sent a desperate look to his boss.

"Dean? Hey, Dean?" Sam was bloody up to his elbows, leaning over his brother, pressing hard like Matt was, but focused on Dean's face. "C'mon, man, don't do this to me," he pleaded.

Winchester had been aware enough to give instructions on how to operate the acetylene torch, but apparently he'd slipped into unconsciousness after the ghost was taken care of.

"Jake, you got Mom?" Luke asked. When Jake nodded, Luke put a calming palm against his wife's face and stepped over her to Dean. "Agent Morgan, can you get that Suburban up to the building here?" He glanced up at Derek even as he bent over Winchester, paling further when he saw the extent of the man's injuries. His hand trembled slightly when he brushed it over Winchester's head.

Derek cut a quick glance at Hotch before he gave a tight nod and took off through the door.

Sweed straightened, eyes sweeping the room. "We need something to carry him on." He rested a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Keep up that pressure, Sammy." Now he gave his attention to the other agents in the room. "We're looking for anything flat enough to lay Dean on and hard enough to keep up the pressure while we transport him."

Prentiss and Reid responded immediately to the implicit order, splitting up and fanning out through the work area. Spencer went back out into the garage and then called loudly, "If we can get the garage door open, Derek can drive all the way in!"

Hotch caught Sweed's eye. "I've got it," Hotch said.

He met Reid at the front of the garage. It took both of them to wrench the battered door up its rusted tracks. The Suburban was tearing across the property just as they heaved the door to its apex. The headlights caught them full in the face, and Hotch lifted one hand to shield his eyes, using the other to motion Morgan forward.

When they got back to the work room, Sweed had gotten Dean shifted onto a piece of scrap board. Hotch and Reid took one end of the make-shift stretcher while Sweed and Emily took the other. They loaded Dean into the back of the Suburban, Sam and Rodriguez doing their best to maintain pressure on his belly, while Jake helped his aunt into the front passenger side.

With Sweed taking over the driver's position, Prentiss and Reid clambered into the back seat.

"Morgan and I will take care of Wills," Hotch clipped as went to slam the door shut on Emily. "Keep us posted," he ordered.

* * *

When he returned to the work room, Hotch found a bewildered and terrified Gabe Wills huddled where Morgan had left him cuffed. He was hunched forward as much as possible given the fact that his hands were secured behind his back, probably in reaction to the hit his chest had taken from the salt round. Hotch could see the pock marks in his skin where the salt had made contact.

"Wh- what happened?" he stammered. "Agent Hotchner?" He was blinking furiously around him. "I don't..." He rubbed his chin absently against his breastbone, grimacing uncertainly at the pain and glancing down. "What...? Is that _blood_?" he asked, staring down at the gore splattered across his shirt front and then at the floor where Jo had been tied and Dean had fallen.

"Yeah, that's blood," Morgan said grimly, pulling the boy to his feet. "I'm surprised you don't recognize it, given you're responsible for most of it," he said.

The kid cringed away from the agent. "What? No! I..." He looked at Hotch frantically. "I don't know what happened! I..."

"Sure you don't, kid," Morgan started.

But Hotch shook his head at the younger man, running a weary hand over his head. "Derek," he said gently. "Leave it."

Morgan raised an eyebrow at him as Hotch reached out to take Wills by the elbow. But Derek let go of the boy, surrendering his charge to his boss.

Sensing sympathy, Wills started to babble, crying and afraid. "I swear to God I don't know what's going on! I just... I woke up and I was here. I don't even know where I am. What...?"

Hotch just shook his head. He honestly didn't have any idea what to tell the kid. Because he had absolutely no idea how to handle this situation. The crime scene team was going to have to be called in. And all the evidence would lead to the poor, bewildered, evidently innocent kid who was sobbing softly beside him.

They ended up walking back to the police station. Emily had the keys to the suburban Hotch had come in, and Sweed had taken Morgan's ride.

Morgan had called the tech guys as they walked. Hotch had been unable to come up with a reason not to bring them in. Even with all that he and Reid and Prentiss had seen, there was no way to just sweep this under the rug and let Gabe Wills go.

By the time they got to the station, though, it was apparent that they were going to have to go to the hospital. The frightened sobs Gabe had started at the garage had morphed into more pained sounds as they'd walked. When they sat him down in one of the wooden chairs, Hotch opened the kid's tattered shirt and was surprised by the level of bruising he saw. That in conjunction with the number of small, oozing wounds made by the salt had Hotch sighing and bundling the almost catatonic suspect up again.

"The hospital's in walking distance?" he checked with Morgan.

Raising an eyebrow, Morgan nodded.

"Someone needs to see to these," he said wearily.

Morgan frowned, but nodded when he got a good look at the damage. "What did that?" he asked.

"Salt rounds in a shotgun," Hotch said, making for the door with a stumbling Gabe Wills.

Morgan whistled appreciatively. "Ouch," he said.

"Yeah."

* * *

The emergency room was empty of medical personnel when Hotch and Morgan arrived with Wills. Reid and Prentiss were there, though, sitting in chairs and looking exhausted.

"Where is everyone?" Morgan asked maneuvering Wills toward one of the seats.

"Four emergencies seem to have cleared the decks," Emily said dryly as she rose. She headed toward the desk and peered back into the interior. "Hello?" she called. "Hello? We've got another patient out here!"

"How are Winchester and Ms. Sweed?" Hotch asked. "Where are the sheriff and the deputy? And Sam?" They weren't injured. Surely...

"The sheriff went back with Jo and Jake," Reid explained. "And Sam and Rodriguez were with Dean, so..."

Hotch nodded.

"Hey!" Morgan added his voice to Emily's. "Anyone back there?"

Emily had started through the swinging door when a flustered-looking woman appeared.

"What?" the nurse asked. "Is there a problem...?" She broke off when she saw Wills. "Good lord," she sighed. Brisk now, she rounded the corner and came to examine the young man. "What is this from?" she asked.

"Shotgun," Hotch answered. "Salt rounds."

Nodding, she peeled back the fabric of the shirt. Frowned. "Is he injured somewhere else? There's a lot of blood here, but it doesn't seem to be..." Her eyes narrowed, and she pulled back slightly. Eyes widening, she looked at Hotch. "Is this...?"

"He's our suspect," Hotch admitted. "Most of that blood isn't his, but he's in pain from the bruising and some of the salt broke the skin. I'd like someone to look at him."

She hesitated, swallowing. Then tightened her jaw. "OK," she said. "We're a little short-staffed right at the moment," she said grimly. "But bring him in here. I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks," Hotch said. "Morgan. Will you take him?" He didn't want to leave Wills alone with the woman, but he also needed to talk to Reid and Prentiss.

"I got him." Morgan pulled Gabe sharply to his feet and trailed after the nurse.

Emily watched them go. "Hell, Hotch," she said when it was just the three of them. "What are we going to do? That kid... It wasn't..." She didn't have the words for what she wanted to say. Hotch was sympathetic. He didn't either.

"It wasn't him," Reid said from where he was sitting. "It was Merley."

Hotch rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I know," he acknowledged. "I know. But I don't know how we charge a dead man for the murders." Tiredly, Hotch made his way over to Reid and sat down next to him. "For the moment, let's just try to limit the amount of collateral damage this... thing has caused. We'll wait and see what evidence shows up. Then we'll see what we can do." He looked from Reid to Prentiss, who had joined him. Both agents nodded.

They sat in silence for a while, Hotch working through different scenarios in his head. The kid was screwed. It was hard to see a way around that fact.

"The tech team's going to find the Winchesters' fingerprints and DNA all over the scene," Reid said quietly. He was leaning over, elbows on his knees as he studied the floor. He didn't raise his eyes.

Hotch sighed. He knew that, too.

* * *

Sam stood against the wall where he'd been since they'd hurried Dean off to surgery.

The hospital staff had jostled him out of the way once they'd gotten Dean onto one of the gurneys, a nurse replacing his hands with hers, another woman shouldering Matt to the side.

Sam had taken a couple of staggering steps back, eyes still on Dean's face, looking for some indication of awareness, trying to process the actions and orders of the doctors. When the heart monitor began to shriek its single-note distress call, Sam had stumbled farther back, bumping against the solid surface of the wall as more people had flooded into the room, working frantically to keep his brother alive.

They'd fled toward the OR without a single word to Sam.

"Sam?"

Sluggishly, Sam turned his head to the left. Matt watched him in concern.

Sam cleared his throat roughly. "Yeah?" he managed.

"Come on. Let's get some coffee."

Sam trailed after the deputy, willing to be led. They ended up in what seemed to be a staff lounge of some sort, and Sam stood, swaying slightly in the doorway until Matt handed him a hot mug without comment. Sam took it, not even aware that Matt had poured it for him. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear it.

"Milk or sugar?"

Sam nodded.

Matt seemed to assume that meant both so he dumped a liberal amount of sweetener into the cup before adding a healthy dose of cream.

"Sit," Matt said, giving him a gentle push toward one of the chairs. "I'm going to see if I can find us something clean to put on."

And with that he was gone.

Numbly, Sam sank into the armchair he'd been directed toward. He started to take a sip of coffee, but realized his hands were coated in blood. In Dean's blood. Carefully he set the mug on the table next to his seat and stood. With deliberate steps he made his way to the sink and turned on the water.

Sam started with his hands and had them almost clean when he realized his forearms were bloody, too. With great concentration he began to wash, up to his elbows and onto his biceps, washing off whatever red stain he could find. When he finished, his skin was clean, though red – No. Pink, not red; not red, not blood – _pink_ from the scrubbing he'd given it.

Without thinking, Sam took the front of his t-shirt in one hand, meaning to dry off. But he stopped at the initial touch, looking down. More blood—tacky and half-dried. Blood on his hands again. He swallowed heavily. Gingerly, he grasped the hem of his shirt, pulling it out away from his skin, trying to avoid contact as he got it over his head. He couldn't completely, though. And now he had blood on his face, in his hair.

Bending over, Sam stuck his head under the faucet, dowsing his hair and his face, rubbing concentratedly at the blood he knew must be there, trying to get clean. He sluiced more down his chest and abdomen, wiping away what had soaked through his shirt.

"Whoa. Hey."

Matt's startled voice brought Sam's head up. He winced when it smacked into the faucet, hair dripping down his neck and over his eyes.

Matt was holding a couple of scrub shirts. His eyes went from Sam to the t-shirt on the floor. He nodded slowly as he handed one of the shirts to Sam. "I found us something to wear," he said softly. "You can use this to dry off. I'll get another one."

Sam took the proffered clothing, running it over his head and torso. He dropped it on the ground over his own destroyed shirt before pulling the second shirt that Matt handed him over his head.

"I'll get you some more coffee." Matt had picked up Sam's original mug, smeared with blood, and set it in the sink. He grabbed another one off the shelf and mixed up another concoction. "Sit," he ordered again.

Sam did, accepting the coffee and holding it close this time for the heat. A drop of water fell from his hair onto his cheek. Absently he brushed it away and barely suppressed a shudder. It was cold in here.

"I ran into one of the nurses, and she said that they're admitting Jo for the night, but that once they get her stitched up, she should be fine. Jake's probably got a concussion, but they're going to go ahead and release him." He paused. "She didn't know anything about Dean yet," he added.

Sam nodded. He hadn't expected that she would. But that was good about Jo. About Jake. He took a sip of his coffee and felt the subtle kick of sugar and caffeine start to rouse him some. He cleared his throat.

"Thanks, Matt."

"You OK for a minute? I told Cathy where you were, so when there's news about Dean, they'll come find you here."

"Yeah. I'm good."

"OK, then I'll go grab another shirt. I think I'm may drive out to the Sweeds' and get Michael and Tommy."

But Matt was watching Sam uncertainly.

Sam shook himself mentally and forced a small smile. "That sounds good," he said, hoping he was managing to make Matt feel like he wouldn't come apart if he was left alone. "I'll just hang out here until they can tell me how Dean's doing."

Matt's face cleared a little. "OK." He clapped a hand briefly on Sam's shoulder. "I'll be back."

Sam nodded and let the smile fall off his face when the deputy was gone. _Damn_ , he thought shakily _._ He put a hand over his eyes, trying to hold himself together. It wasn't like waiting in a hospital to hear how his brother was doing was new to Sam. And it wasn't like doing it alone was new to him either.

But there'd just been so much blood seeping— _flowing_ —out of Dean. And Sam had felt helpless to stop it as it had welled up out of his brother's belly, over Sam's desperate hands and onto the floor. Sam swallowed, trying not to feel the ghost of that blood on his hands even now. He wrapped his fingers tighter around the mug, letting the heat from his cooling coffee burn them lightly, focusing on the tingle in his palms, needing the distraction.

He jumped when another hand landed on his shoulder.

"Sam?"

Sam looked up in surprise, coming awkwardly to his feet. "Luke."

"Any word on Dean?" Luke asked, gesturing back to the chair and Sam obeyed, sinking down again.

"Not yet. Matt said that they're admitting Jo?"

Luke rubbed a hand over his head roughly as he pulled up a chair. "Yeah. They went ahead and put her under for the stitching. One of the nurses said he'd call me when she was settled. Thought I'd check in with you."

"Thanks." Sam looked around. "Where's Jake?"

"I had him stay close to Jo. I wanted to see how things were with Dean before..." He trailed off.

Sam nodded his understanding, blinking back a sudden stinging under his eyelids.

Luke leaned forward. "I'm sorry, kiddo," he said. "Dean'll be fine." He put a consoling hand on Sam's knee. "He'll be fine."

Sam closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the wall behind him. "There was so much blood, Luke," he whispered.

The fingers on his leg tightened slightly and then were gone.

Dimly, Sam felt Luke ease the mug out of his hands, heard the light clink of it against the table top next to him. Sam was suddenly exhausted, and he sighed, sliding down more deeply into the chair.

There was the scrape of another chair across the floor. When Sam cracked his eyes open to look, Luke had dragged one of the low stools over to prop his feet up on. He met Sam's eyes briefly before closing his own.

They settled in to wait.


	18. Chapter 18

Sam was asleep when Matt got back to the hospital with Michael and Tommy. Luke sat up slowly when he saw the kids in the doorway to the lounge, stifling a groan at the ache in his back. _Damn. When did I get this old?_ He glanced over at his charge who was slouched all the way down in the old recliner, legs stretched out, head tilted back and mouth ajar. Luke couldn't help the muffled snort before he turned to his nephews.

"Is Mom OK?" Tommy's question was spoken into Luke's neck, voice thin and almost broken. He had trudged unhesitatingly into Luke's arms when he and his brother had entered the room. Thin arms wound tightly around Luke's neck. "Did that man hurt her like... like that lady?"

Luke closed his eyes as he tightened his own arms around the boy. He looked up at Michael, who appeared just as shattered as his little brother. "No, baby. He did hurt her, but not like that poor girl you saw. Not even close to that, OK? Mom's going to be fine, alright? She's going to be fine."

A slight nod against his jaw, and Luke stood even more stiffly than he'd been sitting. He gathered up the boys.

"Matty, do you mind?" he asked softly with a tilt of his head at Sam. But Matt was already sinking into the chair Luke had vacated. Luke patted the deputy's shoulder appreciatively and herded the kids toward the door.

"Is Sammy OK?" Tommy asked, walking almost backward so that he could look at Sam.

Sam gave a sudden sharp snore as they left the lounge, and Luke was pleased to hear both Michael and Tommy giggle at the sound. Sam slept on.

Luke laughed, too. "Yeah, he's fine. Just tired."

"And Dean?" Michael asked. "Matt said..."

"He's still in surgery, kiddo," Luke said. "I'm sure he's going to be fine, though. They're taking good care of him." He prayed that was true.

Jake was asleep, too, when they got to Jo's room, sacked out in a chair in the corner. Luke suffered a momentary panic that the boy shouldn't be sleeping with a concussion, but the nurse reassured him that Jake's injury was minor and that sleep was probably the best medicine for him.

Tommy and Michael peered at their brother, Tommy reaching out to touch his arm carefully, but Jake didn't stir. Luke smiled at both of them encouragingly. "He's going to be fine," Luke whispered. "Let's see how Mom's doing, then we'll go hang out with Sammy, OK?"

The boys turned to the bed. They'd been sneaking little glances at Jo even as they checked on Jake, but now they gave her their full attention, Tommy's hand slipping into Luke's as they edged toward the bed.

"Hey, Mom," Michael said softly. He took her fingers carefully in his hand.

Jo didn't stir, and Luke felt the tremor in Tommy's arm that was brushing up against him. Michael looked at Luke, eyes questioning, unsure

"Hey, it's OK," he reassured both boys. "They just gave Mom some medicine to help her sleep." He met Michael's gaze as he ran a hand over Tommy's head.

Michael nodded, taking a shuddering breath, and Tommy took a hesitant step toward the bed. Michael shifted over slightly, letting go of Jo's hand to take Tommy's instead. "You want to tell her you're here?" he asked.

"Hi, Mama," Tommy said. He took his hand out of Luke's and patted Jo's forearm. He looked up at Michael who nodded encouragingly at him. "You're going to be OK," Tommy reassured her, continuing to pet her.

Luke ruffled Tommy's hair. "Yeah, she is," he said. He took a deep breath and blew it out again slowly. He was so tired. Luke blinked determinedly, trying to reenergize himself.

Michael watched him measuringly. "You have to be exhausted. It looked like there was another recliner in the lounge. Why don't you go get some sleep while you can? I'll keep an eye on these three."

"I thought we were going to hang out with Sam," Tommy said. His hand hadn't left Jo's arm. He bit his lip uncertainly. Torn.

Luke sighed. He wasn't sure how long Tommy was going to last just sitting in a hospital room with two people who needed their rest. But he also wasn't sure that the three men in the lounge—himself included—were going to be able to do more than sleep. Luke hated to leave Jo and Jake, but he knew Jo would have his head if he left Sam alone to hear about Dean when she was "fine." His brain was having a hard time working through the logistics.

Fortunately, Michael's mind seemed to be functional. "I'll tell you what. Tommy can stay here with me for a while and then when he gets bored, I'll bring him to you."

Tommy huffed out an unhappy breath. "I can go by myself," he said, affronted. Luke just managed to avoid shaking his head. The quicksilver changes from little boy neediness to "I'm not a baby" and back again were giving Luke whiplash.

Michael ignored his brother, eyes on Luke. "OK?"

Luke thought about it. That seemed to make sense. "Yeah. OK." Luke gave both his wife and Jake a quick kiss. "I'll be in the lounge."

Michael was pulling up a couple more chairs as Luke left the room.

* * *

"Luke!"

The call stopped him from entering the lounge. "Robbie?" Luke turned to meet the doctor. "How's he doing?"

His old friend looked grimmer than Luke would have liked.

"Is Sam in there? Let's do this all at once," the doctor said gruffly.

Luke swallowed heavily. It must be serious if Rob was this abrupt.

"Yeah, yeah." Luke led the way into the room. "Hey, Sam?" He gave Sam a gentle pat on the leg, hoping not to startle him too much.

Sam's eyes came open immediately, surprisingly alert as he sat up. "Yeah." When he noticed the doctor he scrambled to his feet. "Dr. Jones? Is Dean... how is Dean?"

"Let's all sit down," Rob said, more gentle now.

Sam paled. "Is he OK?" The question and tone of Sam's voice reminded Luke sharply of Tommy's when the boy had asked about Jo, and he reached out to take Sam's arm, guiding him back into the chair.

"He's stable now, Sam," the doctor said. "But he's in pretty bad shape, son. Whatever it was that cut him was jagged and, I'm guessing, filthy, because it took a lot to get the wound cleaned out. It was..." He shook his head. "I've never seen anything like it."

Luke felt his heart plummet. "Wasn't it the same knife he used on Josie? Is she...? They didn't say anything..."

Rob frowned. "It couldn't have been the same weapon. I got the report on Josie and the attending said the cuts were clean, easy to close and stitch. He must have picked up something else."

Luke hadn't been there when everything had happened, but he had a hard time imagining the guy switching weapons in the middle of the fight.

But Sam nodded. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "It was... something other than what he used on Jo." He cleared his throat. "How... how bad is it?"

Rob sighed, hand coming up to cover his mouth while he shook his head. "I don't know, Sam. We've cleaned him up as best we can and pumped him full of antibiotics. He's young and strong and stubborn as a mule. That much I know," he said with a wry smile at Sam. Then his face sobered. "I think he's in for a rough time, though. We'll do everything we can. You know that. But he's in God's hands."

Sam blew out an unsteady breath. "Yeah," he said ruefully, and Luke knew that truth didn't provide much comfort for the Winchesters. "Thanks."

Rob gave Luke an understanding glance as he rose. "He's in recovery now, but they're expecting you in the CCU as soon as they get him settled."

When Rob left, Luke and Matt and Sam sat in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Luke wanted to suggest that Sam go home and get cleaned up since Dean wasn't likely to be awake for a while. But he knew that Sam wouldn't leave, so he held his tongue—he needed to save his strength for battles he had at least a chance of winning.

Sam shook himself and looked up from his contemplation of the floor. "How's Jo? Did I miss the boys?"

Luke smiled at him. "She's going to be fine. And yes, you did. Just. They're with Jo and Jake." He paused. "You want to check in with her before we go find Dean?"

Sam nodded and got to his feet. He swayed and caught himself on Luke's shoulder before he overbalanced. "Whoa," he laughed shakily. "Sorry, man."

"Food first." Luke said. "Then Jo.

* * *

They got Sam fed and caffeinated before they went to look in on Jo.

Sam got an armful of Tommy when they entered the room and a barrage of questions about Dean that he managed to deflect with a skill borne of long practice. Luke could see on Michael's face that the boy wasn't fooled, but he was old enough to hold his tongue until his younger brother wasn't around. For that Luke was grateful. If Jake had been awake, Luke wasn't sure they would have managed to pull the evasion off so easily.

Luke wasn't sure how he had expected Sam to react when he saw Jo, but he wasn't prepared for the utter devastation on Sam's face when he took in the bruises on Jo's cheeks and arms, the bandages on her chest that were just visible at the top of the light blanket that covered her. Sam had been so accepting, so matter-of-fact about Dean's injuries. Terrified, yes, but still surprisingly collected as he'd heard the prognosis.

Now, though, he looked broken. And Luke realized that in the Winchesters' world, it was expected that one or the other of them might be injured, that waiting on word of his brother's survival was "normal" in some twisted sense. But seeing Jo hurt was not part of that paradigm, and it had shaken Sam, already reeling from Dean's condition.

"Oh," Sam breathed out unevenly, eyes wrecked. He touched her arm fleetingly, fingertips just brushing the surface, before withdrawing. "Luke." Sam turned to Luke in much the same way Tommy and Michael had, seeking some sort of reassurance from the older man. "I'm so sorry," Sam whispered. And absolution, Luke realized with a start.

"She's going to be fine, kiddo," Luke said easily, stepping up next to him. "She's going to hurt like a son-of-a-gun for a while, but she'll heal." He reached up to put a hand at the nape of Sam's neck. "And it's not your fault," he said quietly, with a firm squeeze to emphasize his point. Sam's head dropped slightly at the pressure.

"She's going to be fine," Tommy parroted, pressing close to Sam's other side.

Sam turned his bowed head minutely and gave the boy a watery smile. "Yeah?" he said shakily.

"Yeah," Tommy said confidently, anxious now to make Sam feel better. "Luke said," he added.

Sam snorted softly. "Well, if 'Luke said,'" he agreed, slanting Luke a look that managed to convey both open mockery and complete trust.

For just a second, Luke was afraid he might throw up. _Please God let it be true._

* * *

It hadn't taken the nurse long to get Wills patched up and back to the BAU team. The kid was almost catatonic from emotional shock, but there was nothing Hotch could do at the moment, except get him back to the station and start trying to figure out how they were going to deal with this mess.

Before they'd loaded into the Suburban, Hotch had sent Emily to find Sweed and let him know where they were headed. When she returned, Prentiss looked shaken.

"How are they all?" Reid asked.

"Jo and Jake are patched up and resting. Dean...," she shook her head.

Hotch felt an odd twinge of grief. "He's dead?"

Emily blinked. "No! No, sorry. He's just... they said the wound was bad. They're ... concerned." She met Hotch's eyes. "He took that knife for me," she said softly.

Hotch nodded. "I know," he said somberly.

Morgan's eyebrow went up. "That guy?" he asked, clearly not believing Winchester had it in him.

"Yeah," Emily said, eyeing him steadily.

"Huh," Derek said thoughtfully. He looked at each of his teammates and seemed to see something in their faces that might change his opinion of Dean Winchester. "Huh," he said again. "OK."

When they got back to the sheriff's office, they locked Wills into the cell and gathered in the outside area.

"I'm still not sure how I feel about leaving the Winchesters unguarded at the hospital," Morgan said, dropping into a chair. "I know you feel like Dean saved your life, Emily, but the fact remains..."

"They're not going anywhere," Hotch said tiredly, pinching at the bridge of his nose. God, his head hurt.

"They should still be in custody," Morgan said stubbornly. "They _broke out_ of jail and..."

"I'm not having this argument," Hotch snapped, exhaustion taking the last of his patience. The whole team started at his tone, Morgan's eyes narrowing in annoyance and surprise. Hotch didn't try to explain himself.

Into the humming silence, Reid said hesitantly, "There are things you don't know, Derek." He bit his lip and slid a questioning glance at Hotch.

"Like what?" Derek asked sharply, clearly frustrated at the attitude of the rest of the team when he felt like they were dealing with a cut-and-dried situation.

"Like," Emily started when Hotch sighed and nodded his agreement with filling Morgan in. If he couldn't do it maybe she could. "The, uh, stuff about ghosts?" She cleared her throat, looked away from Derek's _oh you are so not about to say what I think you're about to say_ expression. "It's... we saw it," she said.

Derek didn't speak for a minute, eyes pinballing from Emily to Reid to Hotch. "You what?" he finally asked carefully.

"We saw it," Emily said again. "I understand if you don't believe it, but... We _saw_ it. All of us. It..." She shook her head. "It was _in_ Wills. And then it wasn't. We saw it come out of him. Like a mist. But with a form. And a mouth. And it..." She shuddered at the memory.

"The Winchesters were right, Derek," Reid said. "They knew what to do. When you shot it with a salt round it disappeared. And then it... it came back. Multiple times. It... gutted Dean. Whatever it was holding, it ripped through him like..." Reid trailed off, as shaken as Emily. As Hotch.

"So you're saying it was this... ghost that killed these women?" Morgan asked. There was uncertainty in his voice, but not hostility. He looked at Hotch, gauging his boss's reaction.

Hotch nodded, meeting Morgan's eyes as directly as he could.

"Well, damn," Morgan finally said.

_Yeah._

* * *

When they let Sam into the CCU, Dean was already flushed with a fever and moving restlessly, even under the lingering effect of the anesthesia.

"Hey, man," Sam said. He scooted one of the chairs in the curtained area closer to the bed.

The nurse who had led him to his brother, frowned slightly as she checked the monitors and watched Dean shift beneath the light blanket that covered him. "He's running a bit of a temperature, but we're keeping an eye on it," she said with a quick, sharp glance at Sam and his chair. "You have about ten minutes, then you'll need to leave."

Sam nodded an acknowledgment of her words even as he thought, _Yeah, we'll see about that._

When the woman left, Sam leaned forward, crossing his arms on the edge of the bed. "Just so you know, Jo's going to be fine." He paused, rubbing at his eyes. "She looks like crap, but Luke said she'd be OK, so..." Sam smiled a little ruefully at himself. "And you know, if Luke says." He cleared his throat. "Anyway. Jake's gonna be OK, too. He was crashed out in Jo's room when I was there, but it's just a concussion, so with a little sleep, he'll be up and around soon."

Sam sighed and settled back. He'd gotten a nap, but he could still feel the exhaustion – physical and emotional – tugging at him. If he was asleep when the nurse got back maybe she'd have pity on him, and he wouldn't have to fight to stay. He started to toe out of his shoes.

Dean's head moved on its pillow, a small sound escaping.

Sam sat up again, bending over to rest his elbows on his knees. His eyebrows drew together as he studied his brother. Whatever had been left in the wound by the knife seemed to be having an effect already. Dean had mentioned finding ectoplasm at the site where Amelia's body had been found. If the ghostly knife that had slashed Dean open had had ectoplasm on it, that might be what the doctor was talking about when he said he hadn't seen anything like what had been in the wound. And that couldn't be good.

Dean made another soft noise, a huff of air that hovered on the edge of a whimper. Sam felt his stomach tighten in response.

"Dean?" His hand skimmed uncertainly over his brother's arm before he let it come to rest just below Dean's elbow. He could feel the heat of Dean's skin radiate against his palm. "Shhhhh. You're OK. You're going to be OK."

Dean's head tilted toward Sam's side of the bed, and for a second Sam thought that his brother was going to wake up. But Dean's eyes stayed closed, his face tightening in what could only be pain.

"Shhh," Sam soothed again, hand moving down to take Dean's. "You're going to be OK."

And it might have been Sam's imagination, but he could have sworn that Dean relaxed slightly at the reassurance.


	19. Chapter 19

"So," said Morgan. "We've got one guy in custody who was possessed by a _ghost_ that committed a series of murders using the kid's body without the kid's knowledge or consent and two known, but presumed dead—now, escaped—felons, who travel the country ridding the world of such ghosts and who have been wrongly accused of serial murder themselves as well as other heinous crimes." He looked around at the team. "And we're going to have a ton of physical evidence to link all three innocent men to these crimes. Does that about sum up our situation?"

Morgan's acceptance of the situation had taken a little more convincing by the team, but his respect for the others had gone a long way toward moving him in the right direction. If Hotch _and_ Emily _and_ Reid were onboard with a ghost being the culprit, then Derek seemed to feel like he had no choice but to at least entertain the idea, insane as it was. It didn't mean he was happy about it (like any of them were), and if it had only been one or two of them floating the theory, Emily knew the fight would have been much worse. Because Derek Morgan was a stubborn, stubborn man. But for the moment, he appeared to have accepted this strange new reality none of them had really encountered before.

Emily sucked thoughtfully on her teeth. "Yeah." She had to admit that was a pretty accurate assessment. "I think that's about got it."

"We're totally screwed, you know that, right?" Morgan asked.

"Well, technically, we're not the ones who are screwed," Reid said. "The Winchesters probably are, though. And Gabe Wills certainly is."

Morgan ran a hand over his head with a soft huff of air, shooting Reid an amused, disbelieving look.

"OK." Hotch had been sitting with his head in his hands for several minutes. He sat up and scrubbed at his mouth. "Let's think this through. Because Dean and Sam are officially dead, I'm thinking that with Garcia's help we may be able to downplay any hits the system gets on them."

Emily felt her eyebrows rise. "So you're suggesting we, what? Hide the evidence?" The thought made her incredibly uncomfortable. And the fact that Hotch was the one suggesting it at all was disconcerting as hell.

The expression on Hotch's face told her he wasn't making the suggestion lightly or easily. He looked troubled. "No. I don't... I don't think we'll need to with the Winchesters. With Henriksen gone, I don't think there's anyone who actually _cares_ that much about the Winchesters. We'd be the team that would be alerted if they popped up again, especially in the context of a serial murder, given Dean's past. I think that as long as we can come up with some vaguely plausible reason for their fingerprints to show up here, we can dismiss them as viable suspects and no one will follow up."

Reid was nodding thoughtfully. "I don't believe that there's DNA evidence on file for either of the Winchesters, so Dean's blood at the scene shouldn't raise any red flags."

Spencer didn't look particularly enamored with the plan either, but Emily could see the acceptance on his face and Morgan's, when she glanced his way. They all knew the Winchesters weren't guilty. There were reluctant nods around the circle.

Hotch paused. He glanced toward the holding area.

The team's collective gaze followed Hotch's.

Morgan sighed. "It's going to be a lot harder with the kid," he said.

"He doesn't remember anything," Reid said. "It seems unlikely that the Sweeds will want to press charges against him given what they know. Maybe there's a way to distance Gabe from the recent murders. Until a few hours ago we didn't have anything linking him to the killings anyway."

"Garcia's on it," Emily reminded him. And making connections, Emily had no doubts.

Spencer frowned. "Can we stop her?"

Hotch ran a hand across his forehead. "Call her."

The ringing of Morgan's phone made them all jump. He glanced at the caller ID. "Garcia," he stated flatly. "Hey, baby girl." He pulled the phone away from his ear, pushing one of the buttons. "I'm putting you on speaker."

Hotch opened his mouth, but Penelope was already talking.

"I don't know who put together that map you sent me, sweet cheeks," she said brightly into the phone, "but it took some serious skills to have made those connections without the resources I have at my pretty little fingertips."

Emily and Morgan exchanged rueful glances. Derek had taken a picture of the map Sam had made with all the murders marked along with the few clues he's found regarding Gabe's and Merley's locations.

"Garcia," Morgan started. "Hold up a sec, OK? We've got..."

But she was on a roll. "And with my own mad skillz to complete the picture, I've managed to put this Wills kid at all the kidnapping _and_ dump sites," she finished triumphantly.

Emily closed her eyes. _Well, crap._

The silence that fell in the wake of that revelation confused the woman on the other end of the line. "Hello? Did you hear me? I can put Wills at all the sites."

"Yeah," Hotch said heavily. "Thanks, Garcia."

"You don't sound as psyched about that information as I thought you'd be," Penelope said, pouting a little.

"Yeah, well," Emily sighed, "there are some... extenuating circumstances, I guess you'd say, that...," she trailed off.

"'Extenuating circumstances'?" Penelope repeated. "Did this boy _not_ do it?" Emily could hear a sort of panic in Garcia's voice. The sound of keys being frantically punched came across the connection. "Is there someone else I should be tracking? Someone who would have overlapped Wills?" More typing. "Tell me what to look for, and I'll find..." Garcia was scarily good at her job of rooting out the evidence that would put killers away, but her soft heart made her especially vulnerable to second-guessing herself.

"No, no," Emily said, shooting a look around the circle. "There's no one else. It's just..."

"Garcia," Hotch said, cutting across Emily abruptly. "Send us that information, and we'll incorporate it into our report." He paused. "There's one other thing."

Emily could see the distaste on Hotch's face as he continued. "It's possible in the course of this investigation that the names of a couple of dead felons may come up. Turns out they were connected to this area. I don't want the case to get muddied by anything that might suggest the dead have come back to life, so if the name Winchester pops..."

"Dean and Sam Winchester?" Garcia interrupted.

Eyebrows went up around the circle.

"Reid, do you remember them?" Penelope went on. "A couple of years ago there was an agent who was obsessed with tracking them down? Hendrix? Hendrickson? Something like that. Anyway, do you remember talking about them? You thought that some of the evidence didn't really add up?"

Spencer cleared his throat, eyes skittering among his colleagues. "Uh, yeah."

"Is it the same guys? Because I played around with their files after we talked. Did I tell you that?"

"I don't believe you did," Spencer said.

"Well, you were right. Most of the time the crimes they were accused of started before they even arrived in the area. I couldn't find any confirmation of that using 'Winchester,' but when I started looking into credit card fraud and the use of bad cards in those cities, I saw a pattern of names." Here she laughed merrily. "Heavy metal band members, actors, movie characters. It was actually ridiculously easy to track them once I realized what they were doing." In the background, they could hear her on the keyboard. "Anyway. The cards they were using were invariably being used elsewhere when deaths started in the areas where the Winchesters' eventually showed up. _Then_ the cards were used in the cities where the weirdness was going down. Which I think indicates pretty clearly that whatever weirdness or killings they were accused of always started _before_ they got to town. And usually ended not long after they arrived."

In her mind, Emily could see Penelope shrug. Across the circle, Morgan's forehead creased as he listened intently to Garcia's report. Emily could see him processing that information in light of what they'd already discussed about Dean and Sam. He was nodding slightly as Garcia went on.

"I think it's possible they were actually stopping whatever bad was going on. I think the Winchesters got a raw deal. I was sorry to see that they'd been killed. Besides. And no offense, beautiful, but those two boys were h-awt," she ended. There was a beat and then she seemed to remember what had started her little lecture. "How are they linked to what's going on now?"

Hotch cleared his throat. "Apparently one of the families here was a base of sorts for them."

Evidently, Hotch wasn't going to name names at this point.

"We think it's possible that Dean and maybe even Sam worked in an abandoned garage where the murders were happening. I'm concerned their fingerprints may turn up in the investigation because of that."

"OK," Garcia agreed easily. "You want me to let you know if they pop?"

"Yes," Hotch said. "And. I'd like to keep that information just among the team, if you would." For Hotch, the tone was remarkably hesitant.

"Oh." The tone had not gone unnoticed by Garcia. "Sure, boss," she said.

"Do you know if there is DNA on file for the Winchesters?" Reid asked. "I don't think that there is, but..."

There was another pause. Then, "No. There's no DNA in the database."

Emily breathed out a sigh of relief. Thank God they wouldn't have to deal with _that_.

"OK. Good to know. Thank you, Garcia," Hotch said. "Send us what you found on Wills and keep us posted."

"Will do." With that she hung up.

"Well, there was some good news in there," Emily observed. "For the Winchesters anyway."

They all looked at the door into the holding area again.

_Yeah._

* * *

Dean's fever continued to rise during the night. He was increasingly agitated, shifting and crying out, muttering words and sounds that made no sense to Sam. No amount of soothing from Sam seemed to penetrate the fog of heat and pain that was consuming his brother.

The nurse tried to run Sam off when it became apparent that Dean was in trouble, but he refused to be budged. When she threatened calling security, Sam told her evenly to go ahead if she felt the need. She stomped out of the room.

Dr. Jones arrived seconds later in response to a page; Matt got there on his heels in the wake of the offended nurse.

The doctor spared Sam only a glance, pointing to a corner of the room. "There," he ordered, and Sam obeyed with alacrity.

"Doctor," the nurse huffed in annoyance.

"I don't have time to deal with him right now," the doctor said sharply.

Sam kept his mouth shut, fixing his eyes on Dean. His brother didn't respond to the doctor or the nurse as they checked his temperature and the wound, continuing to fret and moan under their ministrations. There was a whispered conversation between the medical personnel, and the nurse said, "Yes, doctor," briskly before hustling out of the room.

Dr. Jones joined Sam, face somber. "We're changing his antibiotics to see if we can get ahead of this infection." He shook his head. "The incision itself seems to be healing as expected at this point – I don't see any unusual redness or inflammation. I'm concerned about the matter we found in the wound. Like I said earlier, we got it as clean as we could, but I'm afraid we may have missed some of whatever it was that had gotten inside."

The nurse was back, changing the IV bags on the stand next to Dean's bed.

"We're also going to give him a cool saline solution and try an ice bath to see if we can't bring the fever down."

Sam nodded numbly. He watched as another couple of nurses entered the room carrying basins filled with water. They pulled back the sheet that covered Dean, beginning the process of propping him into a sitting position and working the hospital gown off.

"Dean's going to be sorry to miss this," he said, voice cracking. The nurses were young and pretty. He cleared his throat. "Can I stay? I won't... I won't get in the way. I..."

"Doctor." The original nurse was back, lips pursed disapprovingly.

The doctor sighed and rubbed a hand over his close-cropped gray hair. "Miranda," he said wearily. He looked at Sam and then at the nurse. "Has he actually been in the way?"

Thin lips tightened further. She shook her head grudginly.

"Then let him stay," he said. He turned to Sam. "Go get something to eat while they do the bath." He smiled wryly, patting Sam lightly on the arm. "Let's spare your brother that indignity."

Sam's lips curved slightly in response, but he flicked his gaze from the doctor to the nurse and back again. "I can come back, though. And then I can stay?"

Dr. Jones nodded. "Yes." He pinned the nurse with a stare. "Let me know if you have any problems."

With a last snort of unhappiness, the woman left.

"Thank you," Sam said softly.

"She's a good nurse, Sam," he said. "One of our best. Just a stickler for the rules. Be thankful she's on your brother's team – her main concern really is his welfare."

Sam nodded. "I won't give her any trouble," he promised.

The doctor patted him on the arm again. "I never thought you would, kiddo."

Sam was gone for almost 30 minutes. When he returned, coffee in hand, Dean was reclining in the bed again, hair damp from the bath or maybe from the sweat of the fever. He was still moving restlessly.

"Hey, man," Sam said. He scanned the room for the chair he'd been sitting in before. It had been pulled away from the bed, pushed almost into the opposite corner. He set his coffee on the table beside the bed and went to fetch it. When he'd gotten the chair back into position, he lowered himself into it gingerly.

"Did you enjoy your bath?" he asked. "The nurses were pretty big guys," he lied. "I hope they were gentle." He rested a hand on Dean's forearm, testing. It was slightly damp, but under the clamminess, Sam could feel the heat still pouring off his brother. "Damn," he sighed.

Sam returned his eyes to Dean's face. The dark circles under his brother's eyes and pale skin reminded Sam strongly of the time Dean had been in the hospital after the rawhead. The difference was that this time his brother's eyes were closed, sunken in their sockets, and there was no lame joking in the face of death. At this point, Sam would have given almost anything for Dean's stupid attempts at humor.

As if he'd heard Sam's unspoken longing, Dean made a sound somewhere between a "Ssss..." and a moan. His face contorted, and he rolled toward Sam, trying to curl in on his stomach, arms wrapping around his torso, pulling the IV line taut.

"Hey, Dean, no." Sam reached for the IV stand, trying to move it closer to the bed hoping to keep Dean from pulling the needle out. "Come on, man, it's OK." He took Dean's wrist in his hand and tugged as gently as he could, seeing if he could get Dean to let go of his belly.

But Dean fought against the restraint weakly, curling in even tighter on himself, a high-pitched keening escaping his lips that made the hair on Sam's neck stand up straight. And threatened the tenuous hold on his composure that Sam had so far been able to maintain.

"Shh, shh, Dean, it's OK," he soothed desperately. He loosened his grip on Dean's arm, though he didn't let go completely. With his other hand he flailed for the call button, pressing it repeatedly when he finally got a hold of it.

The staff responded immediately.

"What happened?" the first nurse asked as she rushed to the bedside.

"I don't know," Sam answered, voice uneven. "He just suddenly started grabbing at his stomach and I was afraid he was going to pull out the IV, so I tried to get him to calm down and I think I made it worse because he started making that sound and I..."

The nurse nodded briskly during Sam's rambling explanation, eyes assessing the IV and Dean and Sam's own position. The other nurse, Miranda, Dr. Jones had called her, stepped up to Sam's side and put a surprisingly gentle hand on Sam's arm.

"Can you let go of him, please, Sam? I need access to the IV bag." She nodded toward the stand that Sam was blocking.

Sam swallowed and forced himself to unfurl his fingers from around his brother's wrist. But as Sam's fingers disconnected, Dean's spasmed, hand twisting quickly and grabbing hold of Sam's wrist.

Sam blinked. He looked uncertainly at the nurse, reaching hesitantly for Dean's fingers thinking to pry them off.

But the woman shook her head with a sigh. "Never mind," she said, moving around Sam as best she could.

Sam pressed himself against the bed as tightly as he could, shifting down toward the foot as Miranda inched past him. She fumbled with a syringe, inserting it awkwardly into the line. Once it was done, the woman turned toward the bed, watching for indications that the medication was doing what she wanted it to.

It didn't take long.

Dean gave a sighing whimper as the drug hit his system, and Sam could see the relief spread across his brother's features, muscles relaxing, mouth slackening as the pain subsided. The fingers around Sam's wrist slipped their loose hold, and Dean's hand dropped limply back to the bed.

Sam stood motionless for a second and then watched his own hand, the one that Dean had been holding, begin to shake in reaction. He curled his fingers into a fist as he withdrew his arm from where it had hung suspended over the mattress. He took a step back and wrapped his arms around his body.

"What was that?" he asked numbly. "Should he be in that much pain?"

Both the nurses looked troubled and exchanged glances without answering immediately.

"I'm going to call Dr. Jones," Miranda said.


	20. Chapter 20

Sam rubbed exhaustedly at his eyes, shifting once again in the chair that hadn't been comfortable 14 hours ago and was actively torturing him now. There'd been no improvement in Dean's condition. His brother was drugged to the gills, antibiotics and heavy pain-killers keeping him unconscious while he battled whatever it was that was causing him such agony.

Sam had called Bobby after the second time Dean had drifted toward awareness and started in again with the heart-rending, Sam-terrifying keening sounds of pain before Dean had even become fully conscious.

The nurses and Dr. Jones had maintained their stoic, professional masks as they'd once more upped the dosages in Dean's IV, but Sam had seen through their practiced facades of "we have everything under control."

It had scared the crap out of him.

Bobby had grunted when Sam told him he thought there might be some ectoplasm contamination in the wound.

"You think there's anything out there on that?" Sam had asked anxiously. "This has to have happened before, right? I mean, some other hunter _has_ to have had this same thing have happened at some point, right?"

"Seems like," Bobby had acknowledged cautiously. "I'll call you back." And he'd hung up.

That had been hours ago.

Sam put his forehead back on the mattress. He was so tired. But he hadn't been able to sleep at all. He let himself drift.

"Hey, baby."

Sam hadn't heard her come in. Hadn't even started when she'd put her hand on his head. He blinked up at her.

"Hey." He cleared his throat, rising slowly. "What are you doing here?"

Jo smiled at him. "Goin' stir crazy," she said. "Thought I'd check on you boys." She was wearing a robe Sam recognized from the house and holding onto an IV pole with a bag attached to it. He could see the bandages across her chest under the hospital gown. Her usually open face was shuttered in some indefinable way, a bruise on her cheek and matching dark shadows under her eyes.

Sam frowned at her. "Are you supposed to be out of bed?" he asked suspiciously. He gestured to the chair, thinking she should sit down, but Jo shook her head at him, eyes drifting toward Dean before she looked back up at Sam.

Her lower lip poked out in a pout. "I'm bored."

"I think you escaped," he said repressively.

She shrugged her acknowledgment of that truth. Sam saw the pain from the slight movement tighten her face. She looked at Dean again, moving closer. "Luke took the boys home," she said by way of explanation. She laid a hand against Dean's fevered cheek. "How is he?"

Sam swallowed, not able to vocalize an answer. Sam doubted medical privacy meant much to the staff here especially with Jo. He suspected she knew very well how bad things were.

And Jo didn't seem to expect a response, just stayed where she was, thumb brushing gently over Dean's skin for several long seconds before she turned back to Sam.

"When did you sleep last, honey?"

It was Sam's turn to shrug. "Chair's not very comfortable."

"Is that not a bed?" she asked archly. With her chin, she pointed to the bed behind him.

Sam glanced at the bed, before eyeing the door nervously. He'd thought about lying down. But he hadn't wanted to risk angering his brother's nurse.

"Go on, baby. I'll keep an eye on your brother."

"I dunno, Jo," he mumbled, though he inched in the direction Jo was indicating. "I don't..."

"Josie Sweed, what are you doing out of bed?"

Sam jerked guiltily and slid quickly back to his approved position by the chair as Miranda approached them.

"Checking on my boys," Jo said, unconcerned. "How's Dean doing, Mira?"

The woman scowled. "I figured you'd be down here at some point, seeing as how that husband of yours was lurking around," she snapped, not answering Jo's question. "Well, sit down before you fall down, girl," she ordered.

When Sam moved to allow Jo access to the chair, the woman whipped her attention toward him.

Sam froze, staring owlishly when the nurse's glare turned on him. "Are you just going to stand there?" she demanded. "Lie down." She pointed at the bed.

Sam obeyed – mostly – dropping his butt onto the edge of the mattress. But he didn't lie down. Miranda narrowed her eyes at him. Sam watched her warily.

Jo hadn't obeyed fully either, just moved to stand beside the chair while the nurse checked Dean's vitals.

When she was finished, Miranda huffed her disapproval at both of them and stalked away.

Jo actually rolled her eyes. "She's always been so bossy," she whispered conspiratorially. "Her little sister was in my grade, and she's treated me accordingly since I was five."

Sam felt the tension in his shoulders slacken, comforted in an odd way by Jo's apparent easiness with the whole situation. "She won't ever tell me anything," he told Jo tiredly, eyes moving to his brother's still form.

Jo didn't say anything in direct response, just, "Help me with the chair, will you, Sam?"

So he did, moving it where she wanted, positioning the chair so that she'd be able to see both of them in their respective beds, he realized.

"Now, lie down, sweetheart," she said.

Sam took his shoes off and stretched out on his back as best he could, angling his head so that he could see Dean across the gap between the beds.

"Close your eyes," she commanded, and Sam could hear the amusement in her voice.

Sam drew in a shuddering breath, eyelids heavy. "Wake me up," he said, "if anything happens?" He'd meant to make it a demand, a condition of his compliance, but it came out a lot less authoritative than he'd intended. More plea than assertion.

"I'll wake you," she promised.

Through slitted lids he watched Jo lower herself into the chair, reaching out to rest a hand on his ankle.

"I'll wake you," she said again.

Sam closed his eyes.

* * *

Emily was surprised when Luke Sweed walked into the sheriff's office. He looked like he hadn't slept since she'd last seen him (which probably made it _days_ since he'd last seen a bed), but he was fresh-shaven and wearing a clean uniform.

His face registered surprise when he saw her. "Agent Prentiss," he said. "I'm not sure I expected you folks to still be here."

Normally, they wouldn't have been. But with the sheriff himself unavailable and so personally affected by their unsub, Hotch had kept them on the ground as support for the deputy.

Matt had shown up at the office not long after they'd hung up with Garcia regarding the Winchesters. He'd come directly from the hospital, exhausted and rumpled. But after filling the team in on the ongoing concern regarding Dean's condition, he'd sat down at his desk and begun to fill in whatever paperwork was required. The kid had blinked heavily as he'd gotten started, but he'd been dogged.

Hotch had watched the younger man for about five minutes before he broke into the deputy's focused concentration. It was a concentration that actually seemed to be more about the focus itself than the filling in of the form, because for all the intensity of Matt's gaze, not much had really been getting done.

"Deputy, why don't you go get some sleep?" Hotch had used the tone he tended to adopt when asking a question, but making it an order. "My team is here, and you'll be able to complete that report more efficiently with a little rest."

Rodriguez's head had swiveled toward Hotch, his eyes drifting around the assembled team. His posture had stiffened defensively, like the implication he needed sleep and the feds didn't was some sort of insult. "I'm fine, thank you, Agent Hotchner."

Hotch had kept his gaze impassively on the young deputy until the kid's eyes had dropped. "I'm sending my agents back to the motel," Hotch had said smoothly. "You can tell them where to drop you off."

Morgan had opened his mouth to protest, but closed it when met with the same implacable stare Hotch had just given Rodriguez. He'd sighed and stood.

"Yeah. Come on, kid," Morgan had said. "We'll all be fresher after a couple of hours."

Emily had gone along obediently, but been unable to sleep. She'd showered and changed and been back at the sheriff's office just a couple of hours later. Fortunately, Hotch had been amenable to letting her stay while he went back to the motel to catch what rest he could.

That had been several hours ago.

The sheriff was still staring at her somewhat bemusedly.

Emily smiled. "Did the big black suburban parked out front not clue you in?" she teased gently.

Luke looked startled, then laughed ruefully. "I guess it should have, huh?" he conceded, rubbing a hand over his face.

"How're Jo and Dean?" she asked.

He headed toward the coffee maker, grunting his approval when he saw the fresh pot. "Jo was asleep when I left about an hour ago. Dean..." He shook his head, face worried. "Whatever it was that got in the wound seems to be hurting him bad. They're talking about going back in, but Rob's worried the boy may not be strong enough for it."

"I'm sorry," Emily said sincerely.

Luke sighed. "Yeah," he agreed. He sat at his desk and let his eyes wander around the open space. "Where's the rest of your team?"

"Getting some rest," Emily replied. "I couldn't sleep, so I came in to give Hotch a break."

He nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Matt?"

Emily smiled. "Hotch sent him home."

Luke returned the smile. "I'll have to thank him for that when I see him."

They both concentrated on their mugs for a while, but Emily noticed the sheriff's eyes on the door into the holding area.

"Y'all done anything about the kid?" he finally asked.

She could only shake her head. "I checked on him a little while ago, and he was out. We took him to the hospital earlier," she added, realizing that the sheriff probably didn't know that. "They treated the wounds in his chest from the salt rounds, gave him some pain-killers and anti-biotics."

"Good," he said. "Thanks for that." He squinted at her self-consciously. "I got distracted, I guess."

Emily cocked an eyebrow at him. "Y' think?" she said. Then she grinned ruefully. "Understandable, given the circumstances." She hesitated, then said, "He'll be fine physically. But he was pretty hysterical about the rest of it. The meds took the edge off, but I'm not sure how he's going to be when he comes around."

Luke nodded. "How much did he know?" he asked.

"Nothing from what we could understand. But then, we didn't understand much; when he wasn't babbling, he was practically catatonic, poor kid." She sighed. "You've dealt with something like this before, haven't you?" She remembered the sheriff and deputy talking about a commitment hearing and "visiting" the man who had been possessed.

The sheriff stood and went back to the coffee maker, bringing the pot with him. "Yeah," he admitted as he refilled her cup and his own. "But." He didn't go on as he returned the carafe to its place on the burner.

Emily let him get seated again before she prompted, "But..."

Luke shook his head. "I knew Gene Potter. Knew enough about him to," he hesitated, "to suggest... possession to him and know that it was something he might entertain as an explanation."

Prentiss frowned. It sounded like he was saying he'd coached the man. "So this Potter guy hadn't offered that as an excuse."

"Not in those words, no," Luke admitted, gaze internal. "But he'd been having flashes, I guess you'd say, of memories—killing his wife, hitting Tommy...tossing Sam across a room—that he couldn't make sense of. He confessed straight off to Matt once he was in custody. I was... he'd shot me when we answered the call to his trailer. I was out of things for a while and by the time I'd heard the story from my kids and recovered enough to put two thoughts together coherently..." He shook his head.

"He'd what? Pled guilty?"

"Not guilty by reason of insanity. The thing – for better or worse – about living in a small town is that people know you. Or think they do," he conceded. "And for all the fact that Gene Potter was looked down on and barely tolerated by a lot of people around here because he was poor and a drunk, he was still considered mostly harmless by folks. Until the couple of weeks before everything went haywire, the only run-in he'd ever had with me was public intoxication and a drunk driving arrest when he'd tried to ride a buddy's three-wheeler home from a hunting trip and ended up in a bar ditch. So for him to go on this murderous rampage. It just didn't make sense to anyone. He was clearly destroyed, talking about blacking out and feeling like someone else was controlling him." He shrugged. "There'd been no trace of drugs found in his system and he'd admitted to everything. The county prosecutor was willing to get Gene treatment, and his attorney talked him down from letting himself be put away for life."

Emily thought about that. "So possession wasn't raised in any of this?"

The sheriff shook his head. "I talked to him about it after I'd visited him at the institution he'd been placed in a couple of times."

"So this... supernatural stuff isn't widely known around here in spite of what happened?" she asked.

Luke laughed. "Uh, no. Jo and our kids obviously. Matt now." He paused. "Rob."

Emily frowned, puzzled by the name.

"Rob Jones. Coroner?" Emily nodded in remembrance. "He's a good friend and I... I talked to him about it after."

Emily felt her eyebrow arch. "How'd he take it?" She didn't think of doctors necessarily being particularly open to explanations that went beyond the realm of science. _Dr. Scully, I presume_.

Luke shrugged. "He believes in the power of medicine, but also in a greater power than we can always understand," he said simply.

Emily could only take that for what it was.

They sat for a little while longer until Luke cleared his throat and asked tentatively, "Anything with the boys?"

Emily started, blinking dazedly, not having realized she'd actually drifted for a little while. _Boys. What?_

"Oh, yeah." She cleared her throat and sat up a little straighter. "We, uh, we've got our technical analyst keeping an eye on the evidence that turns up. If there are any hits on the Winchesters, she's going to let us know. We think we can avoid bringing them into our report. We hope so anyway."

Luke closed his eyes, a somewhat unsteady hand coming up to cover his mouth for a moment. His hand dropped. "Thank you," he said. He opened his eyes and met her gaze directly. "Thank you."

She nodded. "Now we just have to figure out what, if anything, we can do for the kid."

Sweed huffed out a breath of agreement. "Well, maybe we can start by feeding him." He stood, movements stiff. "I should have thought of this on my way in, but..." he trailed off, reaching for the phone. "I'm going to call in an order for food from the diner. What do you want?"

* * *

When Sam's phone buzzed impatiently a second time, Jo only hesitated a moment before answering it.

"Hello?"

There was a moment of surprised silence before Bobby Singer said gruffly, "Jo?"

"Hey," she said quietly, getting slowly to her feet and easing out of the room. "Sam's asleep," she said as an excuse.

Bobby grunted. "Good. How's Dean doin'?"

She spoke around the ache in her throat. "It's pretty bad, Bobby." She's spent the last hour and a half watching Dean shift and moan on his bed even under heavy medication. It made her own gut hurt sharply in sympathy. Not too long before Miranda and one of the other nurses had tied Dean's hands loosely to the bed frame to keep him from worrying at the bandages across his belly.

The grunt was muted this time, and she could hear the distinct sound of a hand scratching at a beard in dismay.

"How are you?" he asked. "Sam said you'd had a run-in yourself with this son of a b-, gun."

She couldn't help the smile. "I'm OK. Thanks for asking. Sore, you know, but... I'll heal," she said.

Bobby sighed. "I hate to ask you to wake the kid up, but I've got some news for Sam."

"Oh, sure. Of course." She started back into the room. "Good news?" She couldn't keep herself from asking.

The silence in response was not reassuring.

"Maybe," he hedged. "There wasn't anything definitive that I could find, but I think I can cobble something together. I'm just not..."

"Sam, honey?" Jo put her hand against Sam's cheek, stroking softly with her thumb the way she had with Dean earlier. "Baby, Bobby's on the phone."

Sam blinked groggily up at her. "Mmm?" he mumbled. "'s D'n 'wake?"

"No, sweetie, he's not. But Bobby's on the phone, and he wants to talk to you." She put the phone close to his ear, and Sam's hand fumbled up automatically.

"'lo?" he asked, sitting up awkwardly.

Jo stepped away, wishing she could hear more of Bobby's side of the conversation than the rumbling monologue he seemed to be giving. Sam was listening intently, even as he was clearly trying to wake up fully, brows drawn together as he rubbed a hand agitatedly over his head, standing his hair on end.

"You think that will work?" he finally asked. He scowled at Bobby's answer. "Could it make it worse?" Jo could hear the frustration in Bobby's answer to that question. "Well, goddamn it, Bobby, we can't risk killing him!" Sam burst out desperately, making Jo jump and glance worriedly at Dean.

But Dean didn't stir, and Sam didn't notice. He'd had to jerk the phone away from his ear as Bobby reacted to his words and his tone. "I'm sorry, OK, I'm sorry!" he interjected. "But you're not telling me anything that's going to help..."

Bobby's voice cut across him, angry and _loud_. " _Godda-... Winchester... D- ... think ... danger... best..._ " Jo could hear only some of what Sam was getting an earful of, but she winced along with him as Bobby raged.

Sam was holding the phone slightly away from his face, not trying to interrupt anymore, letting the older man finish whatever it was he was going to say. He'd shifted so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and his shoulders were hunched up around his ears as he listened, eyes on his brother.

When Bobby finally petered out, Sam said softly, "I'm sorry, Bobby. I know you're doing everything you can." He sounded so tired. Bobby must have heard that, too, because the rest of the conversation was much more measured. After a few more minutes, Sam said, "Yeah. OK. That would be great. Thanks, Bobby. I mean it. Thanks. I couldn't..." Sam stopped when Bobby said something sharp enough for Jo to hear it. And Sam laughed. "Fine. See you when you get here."

Sam looked at Jo. "Bobby's comin'."


	21. Chapter 21

While he was picking up food for Gabe and Emily, Luke found the rest of the Behavioral Analysis team eating their own meal at the diner. He grabbed his order from Marge and headed toward the Feds' table in response to a gesture from Agent Hotchner.

"On your way back to the office?" Hotchner asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"Yep. Just got burgers for Wills and Agent Prentiss." He glanced around the table. "Y'all finishing up?"

There were nods as plates were pushed to the side. Luke waited while they paid and was somewhat surprised when Agent Hotchner followed him to the Bronco as Reid climbed into the Suburban with Agent Morgan.

"I'd like to thank you for sending Matt home," Luke said into the silence once they'd gotten on the road.

Agent Hotchner gave the slightest of smiles. "It seemed unlikely any report he might have produced would make much sense given how exhausted he was." He paused. "He's a good man. Loyal."

Luke felt an eyebrow rise. It wasn't that he was surprised that the agent would have noticed that about Matt. But Luke was somewhat surprised that he'd comment on it. "He is. Both of those things."

For a few minutes there was only the sound of the tires on the pavement, and Luke let the quiet linger. Agent Hotchner seemed to have something on his mind; Luke was content to give him the time he needed to say whatever it might be.

"Did Agent Prentiss tell you we think we can keep the Winchesters out of the investigation?" Agent Hotchner finally ventured.

Luke nodded. "She did." He took his eyes off the road to meet the agent's gaze directly. "And thank you for that, too."

Hotchner nodded. "It still leaves us with Gabe Wills," he said.

"Yeah," Luke acknowledged.

Neither man spoke for a while.

"I have to admit that I'm at something of a loss," Hotchner said. "I know that on some level the boy isn't responsible for these deaths." He hesitated and then said uneasily, "That he's not responsible period." Another pause. "But I can't... ." He broke off, lapsing into silence again.

Even from the short amount of time he'd known Aaron Hotchner, Luke realized it probably wasn't often that the man felt so completely out of his depth that he didn't know what to do. In fact, Luke was willing to bet this might be the first time the man had hit this sort of obstacle in his life.

Luke knew from personal experience that it wasn't a pleasant place to find oneself. But the truth was, Luke didn't have any better handle on the situation than the agent did.

"I don't guess there's a way to spin the evidence that would...?" Luke started.

Hotchner shook his head as Luke tapered off. "I can't think of a way. Three federal agents saw him with his knife to your wife's throat, and even if we didn't admit that, I'm not sure how we'd be able to explain Wills's presence in the garage given what the crime scene techs are sure to have found in terms of physical evidence."

Luke nodded his recognition of that. Jo wouldn't want to testify against the boy, either, knowing what she did, but it would be hard for her to deny his involvement when there would be fingerprints and DNA showing that the poor kid had been the one wielding the weapon that had cut her.

"What about ties to the other murders?"

The agent looked grim. "Our computer technician has managed to link him physically to all the other scenes."

"Damn," Luke breathed.

Hotchner's eyebrows went up and down in agreement.

"Well," Luke finally said. "Let's talk to the boy and see what he has to say. Maybe there will be a way to..." He stopped himself. To do what, he wasn't sure.

* * *

Luke took the food in to Wills, while Emily opened up her own meal and the other agents got settled around the office.

"I brought you a burger," Luke said as gently as possible, after he'd shut the door behind him

The slim figure on the cot twitched, but didn't turn. The boy was curled on his side, arms crossed protectively over his chest.

"Come on, son, you've gotta be hungry."

Wills didn't speak, just shook his head.

Luke sighed. He opened the cell and put the bag of food on the end of the bed by the kid's feet. "Well. Here it is, if you change your mind."

There was no response.

"He eat?" Agent Morgan asked as Luke came back into the office.

Luke shook his head.

"Speak?"

Luke shook his head again. "Nope. Didn't look at me either."

"Well, he's going to have to speak to us, if we're going to figure out how to deal with this mess," Hotchner said resignedly, getting to his feet. He looked over his team consideringly. "Prentiss, I'd like you to take the lead on the interview. Reid, you and Sheriff Sweed can join her." He looked at Luke. "If that's acceptable to you," he added.

Luke nodded, glad to be part of the interrogation, such as it was going to be.

Morgan, however, was frowning at being excluded, and Hotchner held up his hand consolingly. "We need to handle this kid very carefully. Derek, you weren't with us, and I want Wills to know he has a sympathetic audience. I think you and I may intimidate him, even without meaning to."

It was Luke's turn to frown. No one in law enforcement liked to think he didn't project a certain level of authority that would be potentially threatening. He glanced at Emily and Spencer and saw his own disgruntled feelings mirrored on the faces of his new teammates.

"Agents Prentiss and Reid, I believe we've been insulted," he said with semi-mock affront, standing to move toward the holding area.

Agent Hotchner gave Luke a long hard stare before his lip twitched, face softening just a fraction. "I don't have time to worry about your fragile ego, Sheriff," he said blandly.

Luke narrowed his eyes at the younger man, and Hotch raised an unperturbed eyebrow in return.

"I'll do what I can to follow your lead," Luke told Emily quietly before he opened the door to let the agents precede him. She gave him a fleeting smile and nod.

Luke let the door clang heavily as he shut it behind them, wondering what sort of reaction that would garner from their prisoner. In his cell, Wills flinched, drawing more tightly in on himself, but he didn't turn over or acknowledge the presence of the agents.

"Mr. Wills?" Prentiss asked. When she got no response, she continued. "We'd like to talk to you about what happened last night." She entered the neighboring cell, pulling one of the chairs away from the make-shift conference table and settling it close to the bars between the two cells. "What do you remember?" The agent's tone was businesslike, but with a hint of sympathy lying underneath.

Wills didn't answer. Emily frowned.

"Gabe, we can't help you, if you won't work with us," she said gently.

For a long minute, there was no sound in the holding area.

"I didn't mean to kill him," the kid said tonelessly.

Luke felt his eyebrows jerk up, and he looked sharply at Prentiss. Emily's expression had shifted from sympathetic to impassive, only a slight wrinkle between her eyebrows giving anything away.

"I didn't know it would make me crazy." Wills stayed tucked into the fetal position, not rolling over, even now that he'd finally spoken.

Luke slid his glance from Prentiss to Reid. Spencer cocked an eyebrow at him, acknowledging his own surprise before returning his attention to Wills.

Emily cleared her throat. "Tell us what happened Gabe," she said.

"It was stupid," he said quietly. "It was so _stupid_ ," and all three officers had to lean forward to catch what he was saying. "We'd been working on the car for weeks and getting on each other's nerves. We'd finally gotten the seats ripped out, and the seatbelts had been hanging us up, but I thought they were pretty cool looking, so I said something about making belts out of them. And he was all, 'What are you? A _girl_?' and I just... _swung_. I was holding the crowbar we'd been using to lever the seats out and... I don't know how it happened. I mean he was always saying stuff like that, but I was just so sick of it. I could never do anything right according to him. And I just..." His shoulders shook as he swallowed, head moving in negation against the thin pillow. "As hard as I could."

"This was your uncle," Luke said, just to confirm. He remembered Dean saying something about the kid restoring the Mustang with an uncle.

"Yeah," Wills whispered. And now he rolled toward the other people in the room, pushing himself up into a sitting position. His face was streaked with moisture and gray with exhaustion.

"What did you do then?" Reid asked it.

"I..." The boy ran a shaking hand over his face. "I panicked. I... put him in the back of the Mustang." He laughed – though not in amusement – unsteadily. "There weren't any seats, so it was easy enough to get him in."

"Were you touching the seatbelts when you killed your uncle?" Reid stepped in again, face set in concentration.

The kid frowned in confusion. "What? No." He looked at Reid like he thought the young agent was insane.

"Are you sure?" Reid followed up intently.

The frown deepened to a scowl. "Of course I'm sure. Why would I be touching the damn seatbelts?"

Reid lifted a shoulder in a shrug, meeting Emily's eyes briefly.

"Where's the body, Gabe?" Emily asked.

Wills shifted his attention back to Emily, annoyance draining out of him abruptly. "He, uh, had some property. I buried him there."

"And then, what?" Emily raised an eyebrow at him. "Just got on the road? Decided to see the country?"

Gabe's shoulders hitched up and his head went down at the scorn in the agent's voice. "Yeah," he whispered. "Pretty much. I... my uncle was kind of a hermit, and I knew no one would miss him. Not for a while, anyway. So I finished putting in the new seats and... left."

"But you took the time to convert the seatbelts into belts," Luke observed. Hotch had managed to fill Luke in on what had happened in the garage during the rest of their trip into town. A ghost possessing a seatbelt. Would wonders never cease?

The kid shrugged. Frowned. "Yeah," he said. "I don't know. It seemed important at the time."

 _I'll bet._ Luke thought grimly.

"And the other murders," Emily said. "How did that start? Some poor girl not like your new fashion statement?"

The tone of the interrogation had shifted. And Luke got that. But it was strange. The agents had been so sure it had been the ghost. They'd _seen_ it.

Wills looked desperately at Emily. "I don't _know_ ," he practically wailed. The distress certainly seemed genuine given how matter-of-factly he'd just confessed to killing his own kin.

"I don't... I... They were _dreams_. I thought they were dreams. Because I felt guilty or something." He looked from Emily to Spencer to Luke. "But now." His voice broke. "I remember. I... I killed those girls. I." He drew in a harsh breath. "I did terrible things."

"How'd it start?" Emily asked again.

"In... in Phoenix, I think." He shook his head as he tried to get a handle on the memories. "I'd picked up a girl in bar. We were in the car, making out and she suddenly wasn't into it. I..." His brow furrowed. "I hit her. And I wanted her to hurt. Bad." His voice was uneven as he spoke. "I'd never..." He shook his head.

"Were you wearing one of the seatbelts?" Reid asked.

The kid looked at him again like _what the hell, dude?,_ but he answered anyway. "I don't know. Probably. Yeah." He shrugged. "They were the only belts I had."

Emily sent Luke a grim look before she turned back to Wills. "What happened next?"

"I don't know," he repeated shakily. "It's all so spotty."

"Tell us what you remember," she said.

* * *

Bobby hadn't stopped at the Sweeds' place on his way into town, but had gone directly to the hospital, knowing that's where Sam would be. It had taken him longer to gather the ingredients than he'd counted on. He'd had most of what he needed among the stores of herbs he kept for such purposes, but the valerian called for was native to a remote part of Asia and not easy to keep. He'd had to call in a number of favors to get some and then swing through Durango to pick it up. The detour had added hours to his trip, and he was running on too little sleep and too much caffeine. That was never a good combination for him.

The woman at the information desk had been appropriately solemn when he'd asked for Dean Winchester's room, pointing the way in the hushed tones reserved for the worst cases. Bobby had ground his teeth together, resisting the urge to snap at her out of pure orneriness. It wasn't her fault. But, damn, he was not in the mood for the sympathetic glances he'd gotten from the staff as he'd made his way to Dean's room.

Bobby didn't see Sam immediately when he entered. The chair at the bedside was empty, and the man in the bed itself was shifting restlessly in an agony that had Bobby's heart jumping in his chest.

"Damn, boy," he gruffed as he reached Dean's side. He pressed the backs of his fingers against the flushed skin of Dean's cheek, alarmed by the heat that scorched him.

"Bobby."

Bobby turned at the sound of the rough voice. Sam looked almost as bad as his brother, and in a move that surprised Bobby, the boy grabbed him in a brief, fierce hug. "You're here," Sam said as he released him.

"Got here as quick as I could," Bobby started, feeling a stab of guilt even though he knew the delay couldn't have been helped.

But Sam was shaking his head, "I know, I know. I'm just..." His voice was unsteady, gaze drawn to his brother's pained movements under the thin sheet. Sam stepped forward to stand closer to the bed, and his hand came up to rest lightly on Dean's leg. "Hey," he breathed. "'s OK." The contact seemed to settle both Winchesters, Dean stilling slightly even as Sam closed his eyes and drew in a steadying breath. He swallowed heavily and then gestured to his rear. "This is Spencer," he said.

Bobby hadn't noticed the young man behind Sam. It made him scowl at his own carelessness.

"Dr. Spencer Reid," the kid said, stepping forward awkwardly with a hitch of a smile, hand twitching up, too, in a short wave.

Bobby felt an eyebrow rise at the correction – and the wave – but didn't respond otherwise, eyeballing the intruder warily.

On closer inspection, Spencer Reid was no more a kid than Sam was, just skinny and uncomfortable in a way Sam wasn't – hadn't been in years. Bobby figured he must be a Fed given the gun clipped at an odd angle on his belt, but he lacked the air of arrogant authority most agents managed to project without apparent thought. Bobby frowned. He'd figured the FBI would be gone by the time he got there. He found himself pissed off that they weren't. He glared at Dr. goddamn Spencer Reid.

Reid glanced uncertainly at Sam in the face of Bobby's displeasure, shifting from one foot to another. Bobby turned back to Sam, dismissing the agent abruptly.

"I need to talk to you," he growled at Sam.

"Did you get the valerian?" Sam asked. "Are we...?"

"Sam," Bobby said sharply. He turned his glower back on Reid again.

"I'll, uh..." The agent started to sidle toward the door, but stopped when Sam said over him, "He knows, Bobby. They all know."

And if that wasn't a kick in the pants, Bobby didn't know what was. In the hurried, frantic conversations he and Sam had had over the past 36 hours, the continued presence of the Feds had not come up. And so, neither had what the freaking government knew or didn't know about Dean's condition. _Damn_.

"'They all'?" Bobby questioned, demanding clarification even though he suspected he already knew the answer.

Sam nodded. "Pretty much the whole team that's here saw Merley when we were trying to rescue Jo," he said tiredly.

 _Perfect_. Bobby frowned some more at Reid. Just 'cuz. "They know what we're thinking?"

"Spencer does," Sam said. "We were just talking about it."

"Sam's hypothesis that ectoplasm in Dean's wound might be causing him a psychic pain that's physical in its manifestation seems plausible. I'm interested to see how this potion or poultice you've concocted affects him. I..."

"You a medical doctor?" Bobby interrupted.

"What? Oh. No. My doctorates are in..."

"Well, where's the damn medical doctor, so we can get this done?" Bobby said impatiently.

Sam nodded obediently, moving abruptly away from his brother. "I'll get Dr. Jones."

In the wake of Sam's departure, Bobby glowered at Reid. "You got any reason to be here other than your scientific curiosity?"

"Um." Reid looked around the room. "I guess I don't."

Bobby raised an eyebrow at him.

"Oh. Yeah. Then I'll just..."

The kid skittered out the door, and Bobby gave a grunt of approval before sitting down in the chair next to the bed.

"It's going to be OK, kid." He patted the shifting arm on the bed. "We got it covered."

* * *

"You want me to what?"

Turned out Dr. Jones wasn't as on board with opening up a patient to flush out a wound with magical potion as everyone had hoped he'd be.

"Bobby thinks this will clean out the contamination that's causing Dean such pain," Luke said. They'd decided that Luke should lead with the doctor, hoping that their friendship would outweigh the obvious medical objections Dr. Jones was likely to raise.

The truth was that Sam really didn't have anything he could add to the conversation that couldn't be said better or with more weight by another person in the room. It was strange, he thought, after so much time with it being just him and Dean to suddenly have what seemed like a committee making this particular decision. And it was comforting in its way not to have to bear that responsibility on his own.

Though the committee-process had its drawbacks, as well.

"Oh, 'Bobby thinks'," Rob Jones said. He turned toward the man in question. "And you got your medical degree where again?"

Bobby's eyes narrowed.

Luke put a restraining hand on Bobby's arm. "No one's saying this is an AMA-approved treatment, Rob," Luke said. "But, you have to admit that traditional methods aren't doing anything for Dean. He's getting worse."

Dr. Jones frowned at everyone in the room, but Sam could see real worry in the man's eyes.

"I know that," the doctor said sharply. "But I don't see how cutting into a man who's already weak with fever and infection is going to improve matters. And this, what, _potion_? How the hell are a bunch of herbs supposed to combat an infection that antibiotics can't?"

"It's not an infection," Bobby said tightly, trying, Sam knew, to hold onto his temper. "At least not one that can be treated with antibiotics."

"And you know it can be treated with your... whatever it is," Rob said flatly.

Bobby hesitated briefly. "I suspect it can."

"You _suspect_."

"It should."

The doctor was already shaking his head. "No, then. Absolutely not. I will not risk..."

"We can test it."

Spencer Reid's voice caught Sam by surprise. He'd forgotten the guy was even in the room. And, frankly, couldn't remember _why_ the agent was there to begin with.

But Spencer was going on eagerly, "I've got some of it, I think. The ectoplasm." He started rooting around in the leather satchel he had slung over his shoulder, but came up empty. "Not here. At the sheriff's office. We collected an unknown substance from the Santos dumpsite. The lab couldn't figure out what it was, but I think it might be ectoplasm. If the information I've read is accurate about its consistency and the organic nature of it..."

"Go get it then, boy," Bobby barked impatiently over Reid's description. After a startled blink at the older man, Reid obeyed. "Sam, you have the reader?" Bobby went on, not even pausing to ascertain whether the young agent had followed his instructions. "We can test _Dr._ Reid's theory before we try the potion on it." He gave the other doctor in the room a somewhat belligerent glare. "Will that satisfy you?"

Dr. Jones stiffened, frustration and affront beginning to color the man's face a dark red. But before he could open his mouth, Sam stepped in.

"Bobby," Sam said. Letting the "grown-ups" talk through Dean's treatment was no longer accomplishing what he'd hoped it would. "Don't. Dr. Jones is doing his job." Sam nodded his understanding and appreciation at the doctor, who managed to detach his death-glare from Bobby and take a deep breath to calm himself. "We all want to do the right thing for Dean, OK? _All_ of us." The problem with being as isolated as hunters often were was that they tended to be suspicious of anyone "not us." The doctor fell squarely in that camp for Bobby, Sam knew. But he didn't for Sam.

"Would testing it be an option, Dr. Jones?" Sam asked. "If we can show what Bobby's potion will do?"

The doctor met Sam's eyes squarely. "Even if I see it in action, I'm going to have reservations, Sam," he said honestly. "This makes me very uncomfortable."

Sam nodded. "I understand that. But if I give my approval will you do it?"

The doctor frowned unhappily. "If I can see a demonstration of what it will do, I'll consider it."

Sam took a deep breath. "OK."


	22. Chapter 22

Morgan came out of the small bathroom at the back of the sheriff's office and glanced at his watch. Sighing, he aimed for the door into the holding area.

"You need a trip to the john?" he asked the prisoner, not able to keep the snap of annoyance out of his voice. Neither of the cells in the building had facilities for their occupants, and it meant accompanying Wills to the restroom every few hours. For the most part the sheriff or the deputy had taken care of that responsibility, but Sweed was at the hospital and Rodriguez was patrolling at the moment.

With Hotch and Prentiss back at the motel working on reports and Reid, well, God knew where at this point, Morgan had been left alone to sort through the items the crime scene team had uncovered. He'd been at the station anyway and so had offered to keep an eye on the office while the locals were out.

Wills sat up slowly. "Yeah," he grunted.

Derek unlocked the cell and waited for the kid to shuffle toward him. Gabe had been totally compliant since his confession, and Morgan almost didn't bother cuffing him for the short trip to the bathroom. But he thought better of it and closed the bracelets around the suspect's wrists before ushering him into the main office.

Wills's eyes went to the pile of evidence on the desk Morgan had appropriated.

"You found my other belt," the kid said, tone the same wearied drawl it had been for hours.

"What?" Morgan shifted in time to see Wills's bound hands reach for the plastic evidence bag. Before the agent could react, Wills took hold of the bag and upended it in one smooth motion. "Hey!" Morgan barked, grip tightening its loose hold on Gabe's elbow, beginning to jerk the younger man back and away from the desk.

But the converted seat belt had already slid out of its protective covering, and Wills had caught it mid-air with a somewhat contorted motion of his wrists.

Wills shuddered as his fingers closed around the belt, eyes-face-demeanor shifting violently from defeated to enraged. He wrenched his elbow powerfully out of Morgan's grasp, swinging around with it to clip the agent on the chin even as Morgan tried to move his head out of the way of the coming blow.

Morgan cursed at the pain that lanced through his face as he staggered back a couple of steps, but it had only been a glancing contact. He regained his footing quickly, stance shifting from defense to offense, muscles bunching to follow after the suspect who he assumed would take advantage of his captor's momentary surprise to flee.

But that was not what happened. Derek just had time to register the kid, seatbelt wrapped around his fist, buckle covering his knuckles, charging as he swung. And this time the blow connected solidly – a sickening crack of metal on cheek bone – spinning Morgan around and into a file cabinet.

Derek was only vaguely aware of the floor rising up to finish what the punch and the furniture had started.

* * *

Luke had followed Reid out of the room after Dr. Jones had agreed to consider using Bobby's potion to clean out Dean's wound. The EMF reader was back at the sheriff's station along with whatever it was that Spencer suspected was ectoplasm. Bobby and the doctor had started a terse exchange about procedures assuming that the potion did what it was supposed to, leaving Sam at loose ends.

Bobby was explaining tightly what was in the mixture he'd put together, along with the properties of each component. Dr. Jones was frowning, but nodding occasionally as Bobby spoke. The doctor's expression no longer looked hostile, and he interrupted Bobby from time to time with follow up questions, jotting down notes as the two men talked.

"Hey," Sam spoke into one of the pauses. "I'm gonna," he angled his head in the direction of the door, "unless you need me for anything?"

The two men shook their heads.

"I'll let you know when we're ready, Sam," the doctor said. "If we decide to go this route, I'll need you to sign a couple of things."

Sam nodded, accepting the squeeze to his bicep from Bobby as permission to go. He stopped by the cafeteria to grab a cup of coffee and a sandwich as he went, finishing both before he got to Dean's room. He'd almost swung by Jo's room before he remembered she'd been sent home. He was glad for that. But missed the reassurance of seeing her and the boys.

Sam sat down in the chair he'd been occupying almost continuously for the last couple of days. Dean was restless again, and Sam curved his palm lightly over Dean's forearm.

"Hey, man," he said absently, looking toward the bedside table for his book.

"S'm."

Dean's slurred response actually made his brother jump.

"Dean?"

Slitted eyes blinked at him uncertainly, but Sam thought he also saw recognition reflected there—the first he'd seen since Dean had been in the hospital. He hunched forward eagerly. "Hey."

"Hur's," Dean managed. He moved his arms weakly, trying, Sam knew, to press his hands over the ache. Dean's face crumpled in confusion, not understanding why he couldn't use them. "S'm," he said again, pulling at the restraints.

"Don't, Dean, OK?" He clasped one of Dean's wrists gently, barely needing to exert any force to keep Dean still; his brother just didn't have the strength to pull free. "You're in restraints to keep you from worrying at your belly."

Dean made a plaintive sound, but went lax in Sam's grasp. "Hurts," he said again, eyes meeting Sam's miserably.

"I know it hurts, man, I know. We're working on that, OK? We think there's ectoplasm in the wound," he explained, "and we've got something that should help. Just a little bit longer."

Dean's face tightened in concentration as he nodded. He swallowed convulsively. "Jo?" he rasped.

"She's going to be OK. Jake, too," Sam added, forestalling what he knew would be the next question.

Dean didn't nod this time, but Sam knew he'd been heard by the twitch around his brother's eyes.

"I'm going to call the nurses, OK, and let them know you're awake?" Sam said, already casting around for the call button.

Again Dean didn't respond verbally; his face was taut, and a fine sheen of perspiration appeared on his brow. His breath began to come in quick pants.

"S'm."

"Hang in there, man, they're coming." Sam pushed the button multiple times.

By the time the nurses arrived, Dean was almost sobbing in pain, and Sam was seriously considering punching his brother out, just to end both of their misery. One of the women pushed something hurriedly into the IV line, and Dean's cries slackened to whimpers. The fact that his brother was obviously still in considerable pain made Sam want to slug something or someone. He was panting himself now—fear and frustration morphing into a helpless rage that wouldn't let him catch his breath—when Dr. Jones hurried in. Bobby was right behind him.

"Doc, we've got to...," Sam started angrily. He didn't care anymore whether or not the doctor was willing to perform the surgery; he'd do it himself if he had to.

"I know," the doctor interrupted grimly. "When Dr. Reid gets back with the...substance, we'll test it, just so I know what to expect, but I'm going to go ahead and have Dean prepped for surgery. Even if the potion doesn't work on the sample, I need to get in there and see if I can figure out what's going on. I kept hoping that..." The doctor blew out a frustrated breath and rubbed a rough hand over his head. "Well. What I was hoping for obviously didn't happen. So I'll go back in."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his teeth so hard it made his jaw twinge sharply enough to hurt.

"Good," he gritted.

* * *

"Jo!" Emily waved her hands at the suburban that was rounding the corner of the motel. She jogged forward when the vehicle slowed.

Jo scooted over as the car rolled to a stop, carefully cranking down the window on the passenger's side. Emily saw the woman raise a hand to her chest as the motion pulled at the injuries there and grimaced in sympathy.

"What can I do for you, Agent Prentiss?" Jo asked.

"Are you headed into town? Is there any way I can catch a ride with you?"

"I am, and you can," Jo said easily. "Are you ready?"

Emily patted the window ledge twice in appreciation. "Pretty much. Let me grab my stuff."

Back in her room, Emily hurriedly threw her computer and the rest of her work into a bag, slinging it over her shoulder with her purse as she left the room. She'd done all she could do remotely and needed some of the materials that were at the sheriff's office. She knew Hotch wasn't ready to go and had been trying to figure out how to get into town without leaving her boss stranded at the motel. This would work out nicely.

"Thanks," she said as she climbed into the front seat.

Jo smiled. "My pleasure."

"How are you feeling?" Emily asked. "I'm impressed you're driving, given..." She trailed off and narrowed her eyes at the woman beside her. "Are you supposed to be driving at all?" she asked.

Jo's chin went up. "I'm not impaired," she said primly, eyes slanting to Emily and away.

"Because you're not taking your pain meds like you're supposed to be?" Emily guessed.

The silence that greeted her assertion was answer enough.

"Does the sheriff know that you're on your way?"

More silence. Emily shook her head, giving up.

"How is Dean?" she asked. She assumed his condition was what had Jo defying doctor's orders.

The pain lines on the woman's face deepened with worry. "He has some sort of infection that's hurting him badly. I sat with him a while before they sent me home, and it was..." She shook her head. "I can't be home while he... And Sam needs someone there with him."

Jo's chin had angled up again, and Emily wasn't going to naysay her on that.

Settling back in the seat, Emily watched the scenery fly by. She reached out to change the position of the A/C vent so that it would blow more directly on her.

"So I hear you're an _Anne of Green Gables_ fan?" she said after a couple of miles. Jo had been chewing anxiously on her lip, and Emily decided a distraction was in order. At the bemused look she got from Jo, Emily added, "Luke mentioned it."

Jo gave a bark of surprised laughter. "In what context exactly?" she asked.

Emily laughed as well. "After that evening we spent watching BSG with you, Luke said that Sam had found himself a kindred spirit and a _bosom friend_ in Spencer." She grinned. "There was something about the way he said it that made me wonder. And when I asked, he confessed. Even admitted he liked it."

Jo gave Emily a good-humored look. "He must trust you. He doesn't share that information with just anyone," she said dryly.

"Well, he tried to protect his tough guy image by implying that the only reason he'd watched it was that he was in love," she said teasingly.

Jo rolled her eyes. But she was blushing, too. "We haven't watched it in a while," she said. "I think that might have been the tape that finally did our old VCR in."

"It's on DVD," Emily offered.

"I know. I just haven't gotten around to ordering it yet." She looked thoughtful, a small smile on her face. "I should do that."

"You should," Emily agreed.

They rode in silence again.

Emily cleared her throat. "I hope you don't mind my saying this, but you have a lovely family."

The look she got from Jo was genuinely touched. "Of course I don't mind. Thank you."

Emily smiled a little self-consciously. "It's just. In this job we don't often get a chance to interact with families that haven't been, I don't know, devastated, I guess, in some form or fashion." She shrugged. "It's just nice to be around a family that seems to _like_ each other so much."

Jo laughed. "Most of the time, anyway," she acknowledged with smile. "What about your own family? Are you not close with them?"

Emily shook her head. "Not really."

"And you're not married yourself?"

Emily shook her head again, bracing for the pity/condescension/cheerleading that often accompanied a negative answer to that particular question.

But Jo just nodded. Though she added, "Do you mind some advice, if you find yourself looking down that particular road?"

Emily shrugged, resigned. She'd opened herself up for this.

"Marry your best friend. I managed to do it twice, and I can't recommend it highly enough."

Emily turned toward Jo, surprised. "I didn't realize you'd been married before."

"Years ago. David. He and my brother and Luke, for that matter, and Rob Jones were inseparable while we were growing up. David and I got married right after I graduated from high school. I'd had a crush on him since I was 8."

"What happened?" Emily asked. Nothing good, obviously, but from the context Emily assumed it wasn't divorce.

"We were in a car accident a few years later. David was killed."

"I'm so sorry."

"Thank you."

After a minute, Emily said. "You and Luke were only married recently, though, right?"

Jo nodded. "He lost his wife a few years ago. We'd been friends since we were kids and...," she shrugged, but the expression on her face belied the seemingly careless gesture, "one thing led to another and..." She smiled fully—and somewhat goofily—at Emily. "Here we are."

Suddenly Jo shook herself. "Anyway. All of that to say, in the years between David's death and Luke's 'You know we're getting married, right?' while we were at a football game one night, people were always trying to set me up with one eligible bachelor or another. And though it took longer than I would've liked sometimes, it was worth the wait." She paused, squinting a little self-consciously at Emily. "For what that's worth. From someone you don't know at all. And who doesn't know you." Jo grimaced. "Sorry."

Emily couldn't help the laugh. "It's OK. Your little pep talk was a lot more kindly delivered than others I've received."

Jo snorted. "Girl. You should have _heard_ the things people said to me after David died. And then as the years went by." She shook her head and gave Emily a mournful look. "And now, apparently, I am one of those people," she acknowledged.

Emily laughed. "How quickly we forget," she said.

Jo smiled, too, and the rest of the ride passed uneventfully.

"Well, here we are," Jo said as she pulled up across the street from the sheriff's office. "I hope you don't mind my dropping you..."

But Emily had already gathered her stuff and was swinging the door open. "Of course not. Thanks again for the ride." A gangly figure hurrying down the sidewalk caught her eye as she slid awkwardly off the seat. "Huh. There's Reid. I'd been wondering where he was." She smiled. "I hope everything goes well with Dean."

Emily swung the heavy door shut before Jo could reply, and she waved at Emily before getting on her way.

"Spencer!" Emily shouted, making the younger man falter slightly.

"Hey, Emily," he greeted her as she joined him.

"Where have you been?" she asked.

His "At the hospital" surprised her somewhat.

"Really? Why?"

Reid shrugged. "This infection that Dean Winchester has may be caused by ectoplasm left in the wound after the, uh, ghost stabbed him. I'm curious as to whether the solution brought by one of the Winchesters' friends will rectify the problem."

Emily could only shake her head.

"Do you remember that substance the lab couldn't identify?" he asked as he reached for the office door. "I think it's actually ectoplasm. I'm retrieving it and the EMF reader for the sheriff so that the doctor can see what Mr. Singer's potion will..." He pulled the door open wide.

"Morgan?" Emily shouted, cutting Reid off and lunging forward at the sight of her colleague collapsed across the room.

Reid echoed her cry, right on Emily's heels as she skidded across the floor.

Emily rolled Derek carefully onto his back, wincing at the split skin across his cheekbone. She fingered the goose-egg on his forehead before tapping him lightly – then more sharply – on the cheek that wasn't currently smeared with blood. She scanned the office quickly, looking...

Morgan moaned.

"Reid, check the cell." The door into the holding area was open. _Damnit._

She patted Morgan again. "Hey, man, come on."

"He's gone," Reid told her as he came back into the room. He had his phone out.

"Call the sheriff first; he's likely to be closer," she ordered sharply. That seemed to have been Reid's inclination as well because he was nodding even as he put the phone to his ear.

Morgan groaned again, starting to shift restlessly.

"Derek, hey."

"Sheriff, Dr. Reid. Gabe Wills has escaped. When I got to the office Agent Morgan had been attacked and the cell was empty." He paused, listening. "I'm not sure, Derek's still unconscious, but I don't think Wills has been gone long." Reid was eying his teammate clinically. "The blood on Agent Morgan's face is only just starting to dry, so I assume..."

The agent in question was grumbling somewhat incoherently and trying, groggily, to sit up. "Wills," he muttered, hands coming up to hold his head.

"Gone," Emily said. "What happened?" She moved around so she was crouched just behind Derek, helping him stay upright.

"Bathroom. Saw the extra belt. He was so fast."

"Extra belt?" she asked.

Derek moaned, but managed, "They'd found another one of those damn seatbelt belts with his stuff. He grabbed it." Morgan used a trembling hand to finger the gash on his face carefully.

"Sheriff's on his way; he'd been on his way to meet Deputy Rodriguez about a call, but hadn't gotten far," Reid said, even as he dialed Hotch.

"Come on," Emily said, putting one hand on Derek's back and the other under his elbow. "Let's get you up."

It took some doing, but she got Derek off the floor and into a chair.

"Yeah. He's a little dazed, but I'm guessing he'll be fine," Reid was saying.

Derek snorted, then groaned when even that slight movement seemed to have jarred his head.

Reid disconnected with Hotch. He picked up an empty evidence bag on the desk. He looked at Morgan. "That seatbelt belt was in here?" he asked. And Prentiss marveled once again at her colleague's ability to talk on the phone and still be attuned to the conversations going on around him.

"Yeah," Morgan said, not raising his head out of his hands.

Reid looked at Emily. "I wonder if this means Merley's still around," he said softly.


	23. Chapter 23

The sheriff and deputy arrived at the sheriff's office not long after Reid had hung up with Hotch.

"There was another belt?" Luke asked while Rodriguez called in an APB to the state police. He was rooting around in a cabinet in the back of the office and returned to the desk where Morgan was sitting with a first aid kit.

"Yeah," Morgan confirmed wearily. "I'd seen it, but didn't think anything of it."

Emily bit back a sigh. Of course Derek wouldn't have thought of it. She wouldn't have either if she hadn't been part of the struggle to burn the first one.

"I thought burning the other belt got rid of Merley," she said, looking to the sheriff. "He, like, burst into flames and didn't come back. Sam seemed to think..."

The sheriff shrugged, ripping open a square of sterile gauze and pouring an antiseptic on it. "Your guess is as good as mine," he said, starting to dab at the cut on Derek's cheek.

Morgan sucked in a harsh breath.

"Sorry, Agent Morgan," the sheriff said. "This looks..."

"The SUV is still out front; did he take a car?" Deputy Rodriguez's voice cut across his boss's.

"Not that we know of," Reid said.

"He's on foot as far as we know," Rodriguez said into the phone. "There've been no reports of stolen cars, but we'll..."

"The Mustang," Derek said sharply, hand coming up to stop the sheriff's work on his face. "Where's his damn car? If those seatbelts and this... ghost are so connected to the Mustang, wouldn't that be the first place he'd go?"

"Impound," Luke said, already getting to his feet.

Derek tried to do likewise, but swayed dangerously before Emily grabbed his elbow and forced him back down.

Luke reached for the hat he'd put on the desk beside him when he'd come in, eyes meeting Rodriguez's. The deputy was already adding, "He may be in a red '66 Mustang, we're..."

"You need to get him to the hospital," Luke said nodding at Morgan. "That cut needs stitches, and he's probably got a concussion."

"I'm..." Morgan started.

"You're not," Luke said without glancing at the man. He looked at Reid. "Take him to the emergency room and then find Sam. Dean's either in surgery or almost. You got that substance and the EMF for the doc?"

Reid was sifting through the remaining evidence bags and uncovered the vial he'd been studying in the car on the way back from Midland. At the same time the sheriff strode to his own desk and threw open a drawer, pulling out a strange looking gadget. He shoved it at Reid, who tucked both items into his satchel.

"Give all this to Robbie or Singer, then tell Sam what's happened and ask him what the hell we're supposed to do if this is Merley again. If you can't find Sam, ask Bobby."

Now he was at the gun cabinet, and he grabbed two shotguns and several boxes of shells. He handed a weapon and a couple of boxes to Emily. "Salt," he said as she accepted them. For a second Emily was confused. _Oh, rounds._

"Matt, mind the store. Agent Prentiss, you're with me."

Emily exchanged glances with her teammates, Reid nodding and Morgan glowering blearily, before she hurried to obey.

* * *

"What took so long?" the doctor snapped as Reid entered the room. "Is that it?" He reached for the small jar Reid was extending toward him.

"We had an incident at the sheriff's office," Reid said. "Wills has escaped." He took the EMF reader out of his bag and handed it to Bobby, whose eyes narrowed at the last bit of news.

Jo's hand tightened convulsively where it had been resting on Sam's arm, even as Sam's head jerked from Dr. Jones and Bobby to stare at Reid. "What?"

"We think it might be Merley again. Morgan ..."

Everyone's attention was diverted when the EMF reader squealed angrily in Bobby's hand. He shut it off sharply, pulling it away from the little bottle of clear goo.

"Damn," he said.

"OK," breathed the doctor. "Well." Sam could tell the man was trying to process this new information and work it into his strategy for the surgery. He nodded his head as he thought, brow creased. "OK," he said again. "Where's your potion, Mr. Singer?"

Nodding his approval, Bobby pulled a jar out of the bag he'd been carrying around. "It's be settin' for a while, which it needed to do to infuse the herbs into the solution. Strain out the herbs with cheesecloth or something like that before you use it."

Dr. Jones took Bobby's jar and eying the container with the ectoplasm in it, carefully poured some of the solution into the vial. He almost dropped both jars when a dense, smoke-like substance flowed out of the small container, hissing as it came.

"Crap!" he yelped, juggling the two items until Bobby rescued the potion bottle with an agitated growl. "Sorry," the doctor apologized unsteadily. "Sorry. I just. I didn't..." He trailed off as the smoke began to dissipate, and the sizzling sound faded. He blinked at the residue left in the plastic vial. He looked at Bobby.

Bobby flipped on the EMF and held it out. There was a brief humming and flicker of lights before the meter went silent and dark.

"Well, I'll be damned," the doctor said. He frowned. "Have we tried that thing," he gestured to the contraption Bobby held, "on Dean?" He cocked his head on one side. "Would it read for this substance through his belly, do you think?"

Bobby's eyebrows went up. "Let's try it."

Jo tugged anxiously at Sam's sleeve as the group headed for Dean in pre-op. Reid moved up to Sam, joining the small group that trailed behind Bobby and the doctor.

"Sam, Jake," Jo said worriedly. "Would Wills try to hurt Jake?"

It took Sam a beat to catch up with what Jo was saying, looking down at her at the same time Reid started, "Sam, is it possible that Merley is still around? Derek said there was another of those seatbelt belts with the evidence and that Wills grabbed it before he hit Morgan and took off."

Sam turned from what he was about to say to Jo to ask the agent sharply. "Another one?"

"Yeah, the CSU team found it. It was in an evidence bag with everything else the techs collected and when Derek took Wills to the bathroom the guy saw it and had a hold of it before Morgan could stop him."

Sam rubbed a hand over his forehead, slowing slightly, trying to think around the anxiety that was consuming him over Dean. He watched as Dr. Jones and Bobby turned the corner down the hall in front of him. Jo's fingers dug into his forearm, but she didn't speak.

"Sam?" Reid prompted.

Sam shook himself. He couldn't help Dean right now. Let the doctor and Bobby do what they were going to do. The best thing Sam could do right now for all of them was figure out what the hell was going on with this ghost.

"Yeah. OK." Sam sighed as he considered, stopping and turning to Reid. "He flamed out when the belt got burned, so I thought..." He frowned. "But we hadn't salted it, so maybe he was able to hang on? The salt usually doesn't matter when it's a thing the ghost is attached to, but maybe because there was another item for him to latch on to..."

Most ghosts adhered to a pretty strict set of rules. But from time to time one threw a curve ball.

"That's the only thing I can think of. Merley's body was cremated and buried in a pauper's grave because no one claimed him, so there are no bones left to burn." He'd discovered that in his research earlier. Sam shrugged. "But maybe we could torch the car, too, just to be sure?" He grimaced slightly and shook his head, imagining what Dean's reaction to _that_ idea would be.

He turned now to Jo. "I don't think he'll go after Jake, Jo," he said. "He seems pretty focused on women; Jake just got in his way at Miss Book's." He hesitated. "But I'll call Michael and tell him to be on the lookout. He can take some precautionary measures with Jake and Tommy." He bit his lip. "You've still got that shotgun and the salt rounds at the house, right?"

Jo nodded, but said uncertainly, "Maybe I should go home. I don't..."

Sam shook his head. "No, I think you should stay here. Honestly? The boys may be safer without you there. If Merley decides to finish what he started, he'll likely come after you," he said, gentling his voice.

Jo paled, and Sam went on hurriedly. "I can protect you if you're here with me, and the boys will be out of it."

Jo nodded unsteadily.

"Plus," Sam went on, making his tone teasing. "You were pretty badass with that shotgun in the garage. Maybe you can protect me."

Jo's smile was tremulous, but there, and Sam pulled her into a quick, tight hug, unconsciously reassuring her the same way Luke would have.

"Yeah, OK," Spencer said with a frown. "I'll let the sheriff know about the car. He and Emily are out looking for Merley, I mean, Wills. They thought he might head for the Mustang, anyway."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Good. And if he asks about Jo or the boys, let him know we've got that covered." He hesitated. "You got all this, man? With Dean going into surgery and Jo, I..." He gestured down the hall in the direction Bobby and the doctor had gone.

Reid's eyes traced the motion of Sam's hand, brows drawing down as he seemed to be processing Sam's desire to stay at the hospital.

"Oh. Sure," he said. "Of course. You need to be here.."

"You've got my number," Sam said. "Call me with any questions, OK? But the main thing is to get that seatbelt salted and burned. You can probably get some salt in the kitchen here, and make sure that you've got lighter fluid or something equally flammable with you. That'll make the lighting a lot easier than it was in the garage with that damned acetylene torch."

"OK. Is there a store somewhere close by where I can buy...?" Reid trailed off. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at Sam. "A hospital is likely to have isopropyl alcohol on hand, too, isn't it?"

In spite of the circumstances, Sam felt his mouth curl up in a quick, approving grin. "Let's see what we can find."

* * *

Hotch cursed as the Suburban slid around the corner he'd taken too fast. He'd been almost to the hospital to meet up with Reid and Morgan when he'd gotten a call from Prentiss saying that she and the sheriff had Wills cornered at the impound lot.

When he'd called Reid to let him know about the change in plans, Hotch had been informed by the younger man that he and Sam had just finished "appropriating" some alcohol from hospital stores for the purposes of setting the second damned seatbelt belt on fire. Reid had sounded almost giddy about the petty larceny he and Winchester had just perpetrated when he'd told Hotch he'd meet the team at the impound lot—with the flammable liquid, but without Morgan.

Hotch was anything but excited. He'd developed a fairly passionate hatred for this case with its ghosts and possessions and supposedly dead felons. And, now apparently, felonious members of his own team.

Ahead, Hotch could see both the sheriff's Bronco and the second SUV his team was using parked outside a tall chain link fence. Pulling up next to the other vehicles, Hotch noted that the sturdy chain swinging from the gate had been cut. He unholstered his weapon as he exited the car.

The sheriff and two agents were crouched behind a wrecked pickup truck. They had a clear view of the red Mustang, and as he approached, crouched low as he ran, Hotch could make out a shadowed form in the front seat of the car.

"What's the situation?" Hotch asked tersely.

"We surprised Wills working on the engine trying to get the car started," Emily said, "but he got inside it before we could take him."

"Is he armed?"

"Yep," Sweed answered, shortly. His tone was frustrated, but somehow amused at the same time. The look he gave Hotch said, _Would we be sitting here otherwise?_

"Is there a plan?" Hotch asked dryly.

"We're workin' on it," the sheriff replied. He sat with his back against the truck, legs bent, forearms resting – weapon in hand – on his knees. The man looked remarkably relaxed, all things considered, when he squinted up at Hotch.

"The thing is that we need to get him out of the car, if we're going to shoot him with the salt and divest him of the belt," Reid said. "He seems extremely reluctant to exit the car."

"We haven't figured out a way to force him into the open without getting ourselves shot," Emily added.

Hotch raised himself enough to eye the car over the bed of the truck. A shot whizzed past; Hotch flinched back down, ducking out of sight.

"Consider yourself caught up," Sweed drawled.

* * *

Sam and Bobby had positioned themselves essentially as guards outside the operating room. They sat with Jo between them, salt-round loaded shotguns easily at hand. It had occurred to Sam not long after Reid had left that, given the unpredictability of this particular spirit, the ectoplasm in Dean's wound might serve as a draw to Merley as well, so he and Bobby had stationed themselves accordingly. The call that Reid had received from Agent Hotchner right after he and Sam had procured the alcohol had been a relief to Sam. If Wills was at the impound lot, it seemed much less likely that Dean or Jo would be in danger. It didn't mean they were safe for sure, but the news had lessened a lot of the tension in Sam's shoulders.

Sam's attempt to reassure Jo about the boys' safety hadn't been completely successful, and she was texting back and forth with the three of them borderline obsessively. So far they'd been fairly good sports about Jo's concern. Jake had taken to texting her every time he or one of his brothers changed position in any way.

"T lets Ddog on couch, puts foot on coffeetable"

"T to bthroom M to the kitchen."

"J eats ice cream I mean broccoli."

"M scratches butt."

Jo's soft snorts and occasional sharing of Jake's missives were surprisingly soothing.

"Is he allowed to say 'butt' in a text?" Sam murmured, curious, when Jo flashed the screen at him. He was slouched in his chair, leaning heavily in Jo's direction.

"No," she answered dryly, thumbs working the keyboard, lip caught in her teeth as she focused on her response.

She grinned when she showed Sam Jake's answer: "Bottom sorry *eye roll*" "Is there not an emoticon for that?" she asked.

Sam laughed. "Let me know if you find one. I need it for Dean."

Sam was glad for the distraction. He'd always hated waiting in hospitals.

When the doctor came out of surgery he looked cautiously optimistic.

"Well," said the doctor. "I've never seen anything like it, but I think we were successful."

Jo breathed out relived huff of air. "Praise God."

"Are you sure?" Sam demanded; he felt Bobby at his back, vibrating with the same doubt and concern Sam had.

Dr. Jones shrugged. "As sure as I can be, given I have no idea exactly what I was doing in there," he said tartly. "What I can tell you is that when I bathed the wound and the belly with Mr. Singer's potion, I got the same reaction we got with the substance in the vial earlier—smoke and hissing that, frankly, scared the hell out of me." He pulled the surgical cap off his head. "But I kept flushing the area with the solution until I stopped getting any sort of reaction. When I ran that EMF reader over the wound, I got nothing. At that point I switched back to more conventional medicine, did some more flushing with a sterile solution and closed him up."

He paused and ran a hand over his face. "I've got to tell you, he seems better already when compared to how he was after the original surgery."

Sam closed his eyes. "When can I...?"

"As soon as he's out of recovery. We'll put him back in the same room. You can wait for him there."

Sam nodded. "Doc. Thanks." He held out his hand.

Rob Jones shook his hand and huffed out a laugh. "It's always interesting with you boys, I'll give you that," he said. He clapped Sam on the shoulder. "I'm willing to bet that he's going to be fine, son," he said gently.

Sam cleared his throat past the unexpected ache. "Yeah," he whispered.

"Mr. Singer," the doctor said, looking past Sam to Bobby. "It was a learning experience. Thank you." He extended his own hand.

Bobby smiled grimly, but genuinely. "Glad I could help," he said, clasping the offered palm.

Sam's phone rang. He looked down at the display. "Luke," he said to Jo as he connected. "Hey."

"Don't tell him I'm here," Jo whispered frantically.

Sam rolled his eyes at her. "How are things going?" he asked.

"Stalemate," Luke responded. "Any word on your brother?"

"We were just talking to Dr. Jones. He's out of surgery and the doc says he's optimistic, thinks he's already improving."

"That's great news, Sam!" Luke said something Sam could barely hear, telling the Feds what was going on, Sam assumed, then cleared his throat. "Uh, any way you or Bobby would be willing to come out here and help us smoke this kid out of his car?"

Sam grimaced, glancing at Bobby. Bobby raised an eyebrow at him.

"It'll be awhile before Dean's awake, won't it?" Luke said. "And Jo can keep him company. Since she's there." The sheriff's voice was bland.

Sam cut a look at Jo, who was watching him warily. "How'd you know?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow at the woman next to him. Her shoulders sagged, and she held out a hand for the phone. With a grin, Sam gave it to her.

"Emily ratted me out," Jo said. "Didn't she?"

Sam couldn't hear Luke's answer, but Jo snorted in response. "You think you're so smart."

Sam turned to Bobby. "Luke wants some help with Merley. Said they're at a stalemate; got him cornered in the car, sounds like."

Bobby nodded. "You stay, Sam. I'll..."

"Yes," she said. Her eyes went to Sam and she smiled, resting her hand on his arm. "Yes." She listened for a minute and then nodded. "You be careful." She handed the phone back to Sam.

"Hey," Sam said again.

"Listen, kiddo. If you want to stay with Dean, I completely understand. But we sure could use your help. I think we all feel like we're flying blind with this situation."

Sam blew out a long breath of air. Dean wouldn't be conscious for a few hours, and if Jo was going to be here anyway, Sam knew his brother would want him to take care of business. He could just ask Bobby to go, but... Sam sighed again.

"Yeah, OK." He jerked his chin at Bobby, who reached for the shotguns where they were leaning up against the wall. "Tell me how to get to where you are."


	24. Chapter 24

"Hey!"

The sharp shout turned Sam around, and he was surprised to see Agent Morgan moving toward Bobby and him. The man looked a little green coming out of the ER door, but his face was set with determination.

"Where are you going?" Morgan demanded. He squinted at Sam in annoyance and obvious pain.

"We're headed to the impound lot," Sam told him. "They've got Wills cornered there."

Morgan nodded, head bobbing carefully. His eyes moved to Bobby. "And you are?"

Bobby's eyebrows rose under the brim of his cap, but he didn't answer Morgan, sliding a dry glance at Sam.

Sam sighed, even as he scanned the small parking lot for whichever of Bobby's junkers the man had come in. "Bobby, this is Agent Morgan. Agent Morgan, Bobby's a friend of our family."

None of the men had stopped their forward progress as they talked, Morgan coming up beside Sam as they all strode along.

"I think I'll join you," Morgan said.

Sam took in the fresh bandage on the man's temple and the growing bruise on his jaw. Derek Morgan looked beat to hell. And not to be deterred.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Fine."

* * *

Emily eyed the red Mustang for the billionth time from where she peeped around the front of the truck they were all taking cover behind. The classic car had been parked next to an old shed in the lot, the corrugated iron of its side serving to block one means of escape by their target, but also providing protection from any attempt to come up behind the man unawares.

The rumble of an engine had all four people hunkered behind the truck turning toward the entrance of the impound lot.

"That'll be Sam and Bobby," Luke said with a certain amount of relief. His eyebrows went up as the newcomers came into view. "And Agent Morgan."

All three men approached in a crouching run, and Hotch just caught Morgan before the man pitched into the side of the pickup.

"Seriously?" Emily said in exasperation, helping Hotch get Derek lowered to the ground.

"I'm fine," Morgan ground out.

"Clearly," Hotch said dryly.

Sam and the other man squatted in front of Luke.

"What's the situation?" Sam asked, rising slightly as he spoke to see what he could see through the cab windows of the wrecked truck. A bullet whined by, and Sam dropped back onto his haunches.

"We got him right where we want 'im," Luke said, not bothering to look himself.

The older man next to Sam huffed, but didn't look particularly amused. He eyed the federal agents suspiciously.

"Bobby, have you met everyone?" Luke asked.

And in yet another surreal moment in a series of days of surreal moments, Luke made all the necessary introductions.

"Now that the niceties have been observed...," Bobby Singer drawled with a rolling of his eyes at the sheriff.

Luke just grinned at the hint of censure in the other man's voice, and Emily could feel her own lips twitch in response. The sheriff's gallows sense of humor was oddly infectious.

Sam eyed the sheriff. "You're in a weird mood," he observed.

"Well," Luke said, "Jo and the boys are safe, your brother's on the mend, the bad guy is cornered, and this whole situation is so ridiculous and unbelievable that the only thing to do is ride the wave until it's over." He shrugged. "Might as well do it with a smile." He squinted across at Bobby. "What do you think, Singer?"

The older man had somehow managed to position himself so that he had a good view of the Mustang and surrounding area without getting shot at. His eyes narrowed as he thought, looking assessingly from the car to the assembled group and back again.

"What's beyond that shed?" he asked Luke, twitching a chin in the building's general direction.

Luke gestured toward the sketch he'd drawn in the dirt between him and Hotch. "Not much. More cars."

"Any other entrances?" Singer's attention was now focused on the crude drawing.

"Not really. Concertina wire here," Luke pointed with his stick, "has come away from the chainlink along the top of the fence." He grimaced slightly. "Could be got through."

"Big enough gap for Sam?"

Sam's eyes went from Bobby to Luke, but he didn't say anything.

"It'd be tight."

Bobby nodded, still studying the drawing. He looked back over his shoulder, eyeing the space between their current location and the gate. Prentiss watched him give each potential piece of cover consideration.

After a couple of minutes he lowered himself so that he, too, was sitting on his haunches next to Sam.

Singer gave Emily a frank stare. "Sam said that you provided distraction the last time you folks encountered this guy."

Prentiss felt her gut clench even as she nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"No," Morgan said tightly.

"What are you thinking?" Hotch asked, face unhappy when he glanced at Prentiss.

"Well," Singer said. "I'm thinking that if we can get him focused on something – someone – that the rest of us will have a better chance of taking him by surprise."

"And how do we do that without getting my agent shot?" Hotch prodded.

Bobby Singer didn't look particularly happy himself. "It's a risk," he admitted. "But he don't generally shoot the girls he kills, does he?"

Heads shook warily around him, and Bobby went on, "I'm going to suggest that we all make a show of leaving, except for Agent Prentiss here. Make him think she's alone and vulnerable."

Emily felt one of her eyebrows rise. "While I do, what, exactly?" she asked. "Sing 'I'm just a little black raincloud' until he wanders out of the car and lets the rest of you tackle him?"

Bobby Singer frowned in annoyance and confusion. As did the rest of the men around her. Except Hotch.

"Is that... _Winnie the Pooh_?" he asked, arching his own eyebrow at her.

Emily somehow managed to look down her nose at her boss even from her crouched position.

"Agent Prentiss," said Luke gravely, "you have just risen _considerably_ in my estimation."

Emily winked at the sheriff and explained for those less familiar with the classics. "What I mean is, do you think this guy is really that dumb? That he's going to fall for the rest of you tromping off and leaving me by myself acting helpless?"

"Yeah, the thing is," Sam started, "ghosts aren't really all that bright. They're vengeful and dangerous, but they act on 'instinct,' if that's what you'd call it, not brains." He shrugged. "If Wills is possessed by Merley right now, and it seems like he is, the spirit's going to react to seeing you unprotected. It's not going to be thinking about the logic of our having left." He paused. Waggled his head slightly from side to side. "Probably."

"Well, that's encouraging," Emily said.

"I don't like it," Morgan growled. He didn't look up from where he had his head cradled in his hands.

"None of us do," Sam said. "But if Emily's willing..."

Emily sighed. She looked at Hotch, whose tight expression showed her how little he liked this plan. But he indicated his acceptance of it with a minute movement of his head. "OK. Fine," she said.

"Good," Singer said briskly. "We can leave the fence climbing to the youngsters," Bobby said. "Sam, you go over at the spot Luke mentioned. It's closest to the shed." Without speaking, he traced a finger in the sand from the point he'd indicated at the fence-line to the corner of the rectangle that represented the shed. The outline of the Mustang was just beyond it. When Singer raised his eyes to Sam's, the younger man nodded. "You got everything you need?" Bobby asked, and Sam nodded again. His eyes went next to Spencer. "Agent Reid, you follow Sam over, and..."

Spencer bobbed his head, but he glanced somewhat uncertainly at Hotch.

Not a muscle on Hotch's face twitched. "I'll follow Sam," Hotch interrupted Singer evenly. "I'd prefer to have Agent Reid stay in the yard as backup for Agent Prentiss. There are a couple of places where he can break off from the rest of us as we leave and circle back without being seen."

Singer took in both men and nodded. "Suit yourself," he said. "Luke, you think the two of us can move along the inside of the fence behind all that crap?" He tipped his head to the opposite side of the yard from where Sam and Hotch would be entering. "If we can get past that shed, we can come around from that side and flank him when he gets out of the car."

Luke eyed the path Bobby had laid out. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I think we can make that work."

Finally, Bobby's eyes went to Morgan. "What are we going to do with him?"

It said something about the shape Derek was in that he didn't respond or even seem to realize he was the object of Bobby's question.

"Morgan?" Prentiss prodded.

"Yeah?" he grunted, head coming up slowly. He blinked blearily until he focused on her. "'m fine."

No one dignified that with a comment.

"Can he just stay here?" Hotch asked. "Would Merley notice?"

"What? Hotch, 'm fine." This time even Derek heard the slur in his voice. He cleared his throat. "I'm. Fine," he enunciated carefully.

"No," said Hotch evenly. "You're not." He held up a peremptory hand when Morgan looked like he was about to argue. "This is not a discussion."

Morgan's lips thinned in response, but beyond glowering at his boss, he didn't push it.

"Where are we weapons-wise?" Singer asked. He hefted his shotgun as if for clarification.

"Emily and I are covered," Luke said, picking up his own shotgun.

"Agents?" Singer's eyes went from Hotch to Reid to Morgan.

"We've got our service revolvers," Hotch said. "But from what I've experienced so far on this case, those seem less than useful in our current situation."

Singer handed his shotgun to Hotch and tossed him the box of shells he'd been carrying. "Salt," he said shortly, and Hotch nodded.

"Agent Prentiss, give your weapon to Agent Morgan there." He squinted at Derek. "You think you can handle it, son?" he asked. Morgan's glare in return seemed to satisfy him.

Complying, but not particularly liking it, Emily watched Luke hand his own shotgun to Reid. "I've got a spare in the Bronco," he said with a glance at Singer, who nodded and agreed, "Trunk."

"Salt and lighter fluid?" Bobby asked. "We want to burn this sucker on the ground given its power. I've got a bag of salt in the trunk." He frowned. "But..."

"I've got isopropyl alcohol to use as an accelerant," Reid said, turning his attention to his satchel. "And salt," he added, pulling both items out of the bag. "If that will work."

Singer gave the young man an approving look. "That it will," he said, reaching out.

With a quick, self-conscious smile, Reid handed over the bottle of alcohol and canister of salt.

"So," Sam said. "We all set?"

There were nods around the circle, some admittedly more sure than others.

"Let's do it then."

"Give us 15 minutes," Singer said, with a raised eyebrow at Emily. "Yeah," she agreed, checking her watch. Around her, the others did the same.

Looking around somewhat self-consciously, Sam said loudly. "This is stupid. I'm outta here." He rose from his crouch cautiously, still careful not to put himself in the line of fire.

Luke took his cue from Sam. "Uh. Yeah. I'm with you." And he, too, raised himself to a hunched-over, semi-standing position. "Let's go." He made an uncomfortable face at Bobby, who rolled his eyes.

"Just go, y'idgits," he said impatiently, taking his own advice.

As the rest followed suit, Morgan adjusted his grip on the shotgun and gave Prentiss a glare. "You know," he said sarcastically, "I'm not sure that 'distract and surround the suspect' is a plan that required any special, ghost-hunting experience to come up with."

Emily shot her colleague a mostly amused glance, leaning back against the truck and watching the rest of their group move noisily toward the exit. "I guess not," she agreed. "But it sure seemed beyond us before they got here." She shrugged, resigned. "Maybe what we needed was a couple of people who think this is normal to get us to think the same way."

Morgan huffed out a soft snort. "Yeah," he conceded.

* * *

Sam turned his head to make sure that Agent Hotchner was with him.

"This it?" Hotchner said, peering up at the top of the 10-foot fence.

"Looks like," Sam said. He pointed and the agent nodded.

Hotchner gave a low whistle. "That isn't going to be easy," he observed.

"When is it ever?" Sam sighed.

The coiled barbed-wire had indeed come loose from the fence, but it hung down precariously, essentially blocking the route they needed to climb to get under it.

"Damn," Sam said. How Luke thought _anyone_ was supposed to avoid getting sliced to pieces while scaling the fence was beyond Sam. And probably the reason the problem hadn't been fixed.

Agent Hotchner had moved so that he was now standing right next to the fence. "Huh," he said, head canted back to study the purported entrance. "Come here."

Sam obeyed curiously and followed the other man's eyes up. "Oh," he said.

"It's a whole new perspective from this spot," Hotchner said with a slight smile, leaning his shotgun carefully against the fence. They'd loaded the guns with salt rounds as they'd made the circuit around the lot. Sam appreciated that the agent didn't want to take a chance of dropping the gun and having it discharge.

It was a new perspective. Standing directly beside the fence actually showed a fairly wide gap between the fence and the barbed-wire. The roll of concertina wire had gotten caught on one of the supporting posts, and while it bobbed crazily in the hot wind, there was still a large enough space that it looked like even a man Sam's size would be able to slip through.

"I'll go first," Sam said quickly when the agent made to grab the fence. "If I can get through, you shouldn't have a problem." He didn't wait for a response, just handed his weapon to Hotchner and started to climb.

It turned out it was a tighter fit than Sam had expected. He felt the tug of a couple of barbs on his t-shirt and the sting of a cut from one that got through the thin cotton. "Ouch," he muttered as he finally clambered over the top of the fence. Turning carefully he reached down. "Hand me the guns," he said, and Agent Hotchner complied, extending first one and then the other as Sam eased them to the ground on his side of the fence in turn. Hotchner was climbing even as Sam dropped the last few feet. Sam was amused to see that the man had tucked his tie into the front of his button-down shirt to keep it out of the way while he went over the fence.

Hotchner landed lightly beside Sam, taking up the shotgun he was handed. "After you," he said.

When they reached the designated corner of the shed, Sam lowered himself to his haunches before peering around at the Mustang. There was no movement Sam could see. He glanced at the truck where Emily and Morgan were hidden; he could see Agent Prentiss's feet moving restlessly under the bed of the pickup. There was no sign of Morgan from this angle.

Sam hooked his chin over a shoulder to look for Agent Hotchner. The fed was right behind him.

"Anything?" the man asked softly.

Sam shook his head. "Not yet."

Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw Hotchner look down at his watch even as he checked his own.

They still had a couple of minutes.

* * *

Hotch leaned against the corrugated iron shed and wondered absently what the temperature was. The burn of the metal through his dress shirt had him pulling away quickly with a quiet hiss. Winchester gave him a darting side glance, though he refrained from hushing the agent.

In t-shirt and jeans, Sam Winchester was squatting just at Hotch's feet, still keeping an eye on his view of the truck behind which two of Hotch's agents were hidden. The back of Sam's shirt was dark with perspiration, and Hotch could see where sweat had dampened the kid's hair around his face and at the base of his neck. But other than that there was no indication that the heat was having an effect on Winchester at all.

Hotch had left his suit jacket in the car and he tugged at the knot of his tie, loosening it considerably. When he realized he'd tucked the ends into his shirt, he shook his head at himself and finished divesting himself of the tie completely. With tie gone, he loosened the top button of his shirt and pulled the collar apart. He rarely even noticed the constriction of ties in his job (though some of his younger colleagues seemed to think that wearing one would strangle them); a tie was so part of daily life that it was generally when he wasn't wearing one that he felt restrained in an odd way. But then, he was rarely outside in this level of heat. When he dropped the tie to the ground beside him, Hotch saw Winchester's eyes light on it briefly with a small smile.

Now Sam raised himself slightly, catching Hotch's eye. He ran the heel of his hand across his forehead, smoothing it dry of sweat and shaking wet hair out of his face. He looked up and asked, shortly and quietly, "You ready?"

It was time.

Hotch nodded, and Sam shifted so that he was in what looked like a modified runner's starting crouch, shotgun in his right hand, attention completely on the space between the truck and the Mustang.

Even knowing what was coming, Hotch felt himself startle internally when Emily finally spoke.

"Hey! Gabe!" she called. "I'm getting bored. Any chance you'll just give yourself up, and I can go home?"

There was not an immediate response from Gabe/Merley.

"Oh, come on," she cajoled. We both know you can't sit in that car in this heat forever."

Hotch's jaw clenched when Emily stepped out from the cover of the truck. He didn't even realize he'd flinched forward until Sam said softly, "Not yet."

He forced himself to ease back, but he was sharply aware of every muscle coiled, ready to spring into action.

"Look," Emily went on. "Just give yourself up and we can both get out of this oven and back into the air conditioning. Then we can figure out how best to help you."

The creak of the Ford's door slowly opening had Winchester uncurling slightly. "Almost," he breathed. "Don't give him a warning," he went on quietly. "Just shoot. Center mass."

Hotch nodded, already bringing the butt of the shotgun up against his shoulder in anticipation. He was aware of Winchester taking his hand off his own gun, moving it to the side, planting his fingertips back into the dirt.

Emily stood in full view of the Mustang, and Hotch could see the focus on her features even as she called out, seemingly unconcerned. "You're making the right decision, Gabe. We'll..."

On a roar, Wills/Merley rushed forward, abandoning the relative safety of the car, intent on Emily, who was already angling herself out of the man's path when the reports of two shotguns rang out in close succession. Hotch's ears rang from the sound of his own shotgun firing, moving forward, ready to fire again, finger tensing on the trigger again.

Wills was still reeling—first to one side, then the other—from the impact of the shotgun blasts from either side of him, mouth open in an unearthly scream, when Sam Winchester hit the kid running full tilt. Winchester's not inconsiderable bulk lifted the possessed man up off his feet before slamming him into the ground. Hotch hadn't even realized Sam had moved from his spot.

"Bobby!" Sam barked, already reaching for the belt around Wills's waist, unbuckling and jerking it free, before tossing it at Singer in one smooth motion. There was an eardrum-shattering shriek and rush of ice cold mist that first catapulted Sam off the prone Wills and into the passenger side of the pickup truck before swirling with intent toward the man reaching for the belt.

Singer caught the belt in one hand and flung it easily to the side, though still within reach, can of salt already in play, upended and shaking over the object as it landed.

Another shotgun blast scattered the ghost before it made contact with Singer, who barely reacted.

"Luke," Singer said sharply, and the sheriff kind of stumbled forward, eyes darting around, still smoking shotgun barrel following his gaze as he waited for the ghost to reappear. The man's face was chalk-white.

Bobby's next motion produced the bottle of alcohol and as he shook it over the belt, the ghost appeared again.

This time it was aiming for Prentiss and it was Morgan who was closest, leaning heavily against the bed of the truck, shotgun resting over the side as he pulled the trigger.

"God damn," he managed hoarsely in the wake of the spirit's disintegration.

"Toldja," Emily returned from the position where she had dropped into a crouch at the ghosts attack.

"Bobby." Winchester had staggered to his feet, and Singer's response was a gruff, "I got it, boy," right before he touched his lit lighter to the alcohol.

Merley made one last appearance, launching again at Prentiss, the gray mist of the ghost coalescing into the semi-distinct form of a man. But before it could reach her, the shifting mass of energy started to burn, flickering at its outer edges, then flaring brighter, seeming to ignite in one last burst and flame out.

"Did that...?" Morgan was the one to break the silence. "Did that kill it?" he asked unsteadily.

Hotch couldn't answer that question. It had done the same thing before and managed to make another appearance.

"It should have," Sam said unsteadily. He shook his head carefully, wincing as he put a hand to the back of his head and it came away bloody. "But we thought that before. Sometimes they surprise you," he added wryly.

Bobby had Winchester by the elbow. "Sit down before you fall down, boy," he said and Sam folded down obediently at the pressure exerted by the older man. "I'll burn the car, too," he said to Hotch, though his attention didn't leave Winchester, "just as soon as we can get it out of the junkyard and someplace away from town."

Sam had his eyes closed and his head in his hands, elbows on his knees as he sat cross-legged. "Yeah," he agreed wearily. "Best to be safe."

Luke rubbed a hand over his bare head, and Hotch couldn't help but wonder where the man's ever-present hat was. "We've got a burn ban in effect, Bobby. Settin' anything on fire's going to attract a lot of attention."

Morgan was eyeing the car somewhat apprehensively. "Should we be standing here talking about this in front of her?" he asked in a hushed voice. He motioned toward the Mustang with his chin.

There was a snort of soft laughter from Sam. His head was still in his hands, and he didn't look up. "You sound like Dean," he said in vague amusement. " _She_ can't hear anything. And if Merley's not gone completely, he's been weakened considerably." Now he did look up at Bobby. "I don't think anyone else is in danger of possession, do you?" he asked.

"Nah," Bobby said. "But we'll be careful." He huffed out a sigh and looked at Luke. "Can we get your doctor friend to sign off on something contagious in the car? Use that as an excuse to burn it? Have the fire department standing by? I can salt it before anyone else is around."

Luke nodded. "Yeah. That should work."

Bobby squatted down in front of Sam. "You up for finishing this?" He took Sam's chin in his hand and peered at his face. Sam squinted at him, then opened his eyes, blinking them wide and letting Singer examine his pupils.

"I'm OK," Winchester said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright then." Singer slapped the kid on the knee before rising and holding out a hand to pull Sam to his feet. "Where's a tow truck? And a good place to burn this thing?"

* * *

In the end the team waited for Winchester and Singer to get the Mustang hooked up to the tow truck before making the drive out to the open field Luke had set aside for the burn. As Hotch understood it, the firetrucks would meet them there.

Hotch wasn't sure why anything Winchester did would surprise him at this stage, but for some reason watching the kid, pale with pain and blood still oozing from the gash hidden under his hair, shimmy under the Mustang and attach a line for the tow truck impressed Hotch once again. Like his brother, Sam was a professional, serious about his job and not about to let a little head wound keep him from finishing the task at hand.

"String 'er up," Bobby Singer said, voice pitched for Winchester to hear. He'd come up on Hotch from the left.

Sam was already headed for the cab.

"Kid always loved this part." There was no mistaking the fondness in the man's voice.

"How long have you known the Winchesters?"

Singer's eyes slanted toward Hotch. Hotch didn't look at him.

"Awhile," Singer said.

Hotch kept silent. The winch began to contract, slowly pulling the Mustang close.

As the front of the Mustang began to tilt up, Singer went on. "Their daddy left the boys with me for the first time when Sam was around three and Dean close to eight."

Hotch maintained his lack of expression.

"Did that on and off for years." He was watching as the car raised higher and higher, a small smile on his face. "Sam was crap at helping me with the cars. Wanted to. When he was a little guy. Because his brother did." Sam's head poked out of the driver's side window, turned back to watch the car's progress. "'Course when he got older, he couldn't have cared less—had focused himself on getting out of the life. But he would always do this. Even when he was neck deep in whatever book he had his nose in, he would stop and run the winch." The Mustang reached its apex and the winch shut off.

"Got it, Bobby," Sam said.

"That you did," Bobby agreed. "Shove over. I'm drivin'."

* * *

Sam leaned against the window, closing his eyes with a sigh. He had the bandana Bobby had handed him pressed to the back of head.

"How you doin', kid?"

"Fine," Sam sighed. "Ready to be done with this."

"Yeah," Bobby said.

They drove for a couple of minutes before Sam forced himself away from the passenger door. He pulled the cloth away from his head, examined it, put it back in place. "I should call the hospital." He fished his phone out of the pocket with his free hand and stared at the face, blinking determinedly. "Do I know the number for the hospital?" he asked with an uncertain look at Bobby.

Bobby couldn't help the huff of air he expelled. "Call Jo," he suggested.

Sam frowned at him. "Oh. Yeah. Right."

"You sure you up for this, Sam," Bobby asked. The kid's eyes had been clear at the yard, and he'd been moving pretty well until he'd gotten in the car. But now.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, Bobby. Sorry." He shook his head. "Just tired." He turned his attention to the phone when Jo picked up.

The conversation about Dean was quiet and fairly quick. Sam hung up with a relieved sigh. "He's fine. Dean's fine. Jo said he was doing really well."

This time Bobby couldn't help the grin. "That's good news."

Sam's own smile lit up the cab of the truck. "Yeah. It is."


	25. Chapter 25

" _Come now, you who say, 'Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, and spend a year there and engage in business and make a profit.' Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away. Instead, you ought to say, 'If the Lord wills, we will live and also do this or that.'" James 4:13-15_

* * *

Somehow word had spread about burning the car and quite a little crowd had gathered to watch the old Ford go up in flames.

Hotch could see the frustration on the sheriff's face as he herded a group of teenagers farther away from the burn site. He turned and sent a fierce scowl toward one of the younger volunteer firefighters, who ducked his head.

"I swear, Donny Joe, if you can't keep your mouth shut about these sorts of things, there's not going to be a place for you on the crew," Sweed snapped.

"I didn't know it was some big secret," the big, blonde young man responded defensively, though Hotch could see he was well aware he'd made a mistake. "And Bud was in the room when I answered the call. It's not like I posted it on Facebook," he muttered, with a dark glance at another large, blonde, but clearly younger kid.

Now the sheriff gave that kid a hard look.

"Sorry," the boy mumbled.

"Honestly," Sweed huffed. When he'd gotten the crowd where he wanted, the sheriff stationed Deputy Rodriguez to keep an eye on the milling group of kids. "Any of y'all move out of this spot, there's gonna be hell to pay." He pointed an admonitory finger at the crowd. "Y'all hear me?" he asked sternly.

There was a chorus of good-natured agreement and some eye-rolling in response before the sheriff moved off with a sigh.

"Is the car going to blow up?"

Hotch turned toward the muted, but excited voice of Tommy McCrae, standing with Sam.

"It might," answered Bobby Singer. He'd stuck close to Winchester after he'd taken care of preparing the car for burning, grumbling at Sam until the young man had retreated to his current position. "That's why your uncle's shooing everyone off. But burning cars don't always explode."

"Shoot," was the disappointed reply.

Hotch smiled slightly when he met Singer's eyes over Tommy's head.

"Well, we'll hope for the best," Singer said drily.

The McCrae kids – Tommy and Jake and an older boy Hotch hadn't met before – had shown up a few minutes earlier. The two teenagers had come over to check in with Winchester and say hello to Singer before joining their friends. Tommy lingered close to Sam.

"Sammy?"

Hotch saw Morgan's eyebrow raise at the nickname, glancing at Winchester before canting his face down to observe Tommy.

Sam, who had been leaning on the tow truck, buckled his knees and slid down to the ground next to the boy. "Yeah?"

Now that the two were closer to eye level, Tommy gave Winchester a serious once-over. "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine," Sam said, eyes closing as he put his forehead on drawn up knees.

Tommy nodded, though he didn't look convinced. "Do you want the car to explode?" He crouched down by Winchester. "That would be cool, huh?"

Sam opened his eyes on a laugh, turning his head to smile at Tommy. He rested his cheek on a knee. "Yeah. That would be really cool."

"Dean'll be bummed if he misses it," the boy noted somewhat sadly.

"I wouldn't worry too much about it, kid." Morgan inserted himself into the conversation to Hotch's surprise. The agent bent down slightly toward the boy and pointed at the knot of teenagers. Most had their phones out, aimed at the car. "He'll get to see it."

Morgan lowered himself to the dirt gingerly, taking his cue from Winchester. "How long you figure it'll be?" he asked. He looked like hell, but had refused to miss out on the final burning.

Sam shrugged. He raised his head and rubbed tiredly at his eyes. "For the car to burn? This is a first for me, I gotta admit."

Morgan grunted and slitted his eyes almost closed, keeping vague attention on the scene in front of him.

Hotch leaned against the truck himself, but stayed on his feet.

Singer had managed to "salt" the Mustang—inside and out—before the fire department had gotten there and had removed himself from the process, letting the officials do their job. His own job, it was clear at this point, was to keep an eye on the younger of the Winchester brothers. For all his gruffness, Singer's care for the young man spoke of long practice and true feeling.

Hotch let his eyes wander over to the teenagers on his left. He searched out Jake McCrae among the throng and saw that the kid's face was noticeably pale. Hotch had just opened his mouth to point that out to the sheriff, when the slightly taller shadow of a brother next to the boy put a hand on his elbow and began to steer him away from the crowd, saying something quietly to the deputy as they passed.

Jake looked annoyed, lips tightening as he was shepherded toward the adults and pulling his arm away from his brother.

"Sit there," the older boy commanded as they approached, pointing at a spot next to Winchester.

"'m fine, Michael," Jake snapped with a frown, tugging to free the elbow his brother had taken repossession of.

"Whatever," his brother said, not letting go. "There." He jerked Jake slightly to position the boy where he wanted him. Jake dragged his feet mulishly toward Sam.

"I can always take you home," Michael added complacently, hand firmly in place on his brother's arm, "if you're going to be a brat about it."

Winchester raised an eyebrow at Michael, scooting over somewhat to make room.

Jake stopped the slide of his shoes and let Michael lower him to the ground next to Sam. Tommy tried to settle on the other side of Winchester, but was too small to lean comfortably against the truck like the men and his older brother. So he scooted over to Sam, worming his way between long legs to use the tall man as a backrest. Winchester's face contorted in discomfort.

"It's hot, Tommy," he complained.

The boy shifted slightly, but didn't abandon his spot. And Winchester sighed in resignation, letting his eyelids slip closed again.

On his other side, Jake tilted toward Sam and then withdrew, nose wrinkling. "Sammy, man, you kinda stink," he observed.

"Did I mention it's hot?" Sam asked. Without opening his eyes, he snaked an arm to the side so that his pit was over Jake's nose, pressing it into the boy's face. "How's that smell?" he wondered over Jake's affronted, then muffled yelp.

"Dude, I have a concussion," Jake whined after Sam had retracted his arm, rubbing disgustedly at his nose.

"Oh, yeah?" Sam said with seeming unconcern. "Me, too, maybe." He squinted at the boy.

Jake rolled his eyes, but still somehow ended up with his shoulder bumped against Sam's. "You alright?" he asked.

"I'll live," Sam said.

"Well, yeah," Jake duhed.

Hotch turned toward Michael. "You're the oldest of the Sweeds' boys," he said extending a hand.

"Yes, sir. Michael McCrae."

"Aaron Hotchner."

Michael nodded. "Nice to meet you." His attention slipped down to Jake.

"How's your aunt?" Hotch asked.

The kid's eyes came up to Hotch's. "She's fine. She's at the hospital with Dean." He shook his head. "She should probably be at home, but..." He shrugged. "When this is over, we'll..."

"We'll what?" Luke had joined them.

Michael met his uncle's amused smile with one of his own. "I don't know. Make Mom rest?"

"Good luck with that," Luke said.

The boy made remarkably life-like chicken-clucking noises.

Luke laughed, glancing down now at Sam and the two younger boys leaning up against the truck.

"Looks like it might be nap time for everyone when this is over."

"You can't make me," Winchester mumbled, cracking one eye open to stare at the sheriff.

Luke laughed again, dropping a hand briefly to the top of Sam's head.

Hotch shook his head at the play among the men. He felt an odd surge of protectiveness for the whole group. Hotch had had his perception of "normal" altered fundamentally over the last few days. He knew that without the Winchesters and their friends he and his team would not have known what they were up against or how to handle it.

It was humbling realization, which was an experience Hotch wasn't really familiar with and, frankly, didn't much care for. But he was an honest man, and there was no getting around the service the Winchesters and their "family" had provided their government, in spite of the danger to themselves.

He sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes.

"Everything OK?" the sheriff asked.

"Yeah." Hotch gave the man a sliver of a smile. "Just looking forward to that nap."

* * *

All things considered, Sam thought the burning of the car was pretty anti-climactic.

The Mustang went up easily, but there was no flare of a departing spirit, or – much to Tommy's (and Sam's own) disappointment – an explosion. The gathered crowd had oohed and awed appreciatively as the car's paint curled in the heat, and the tires blew with muffled pops. But the lack of any real action had Sam twitchy to get gone and back to the hospital to check on his brother.

All indications were that Dean was markedly improved, though, in the cautioning words of the doctor, still seriously injured. Jo swore Dean was resting. But Sam needed to see it for himself.

"Now?" Sam wasn't trying to be annoying, but he saw the tic in Bobby's cheek and knew that he was anyway. Changing the question from "Can we go?" didn't seem to have made a difference.

"Boy." Bobby's low rumble carried a distinct threat, and Sam took a wary step back. "You're the one wanted to see this through. This look 'through' to you?"

The fire was mostly out, but the car was still smoldering, and Sam knew Bobby would want to run the EMF reader over the ashes before he'd be willing to pronounce the case over. But everyone was gone except a couple of bored fire-fighters and the Feds, who were milling around uncertainly. Sam wished he'd gone with Luke when he'd had a chance.

"No," he muttered. He cleared his throat around the sullen tone that leaked out. "No," he said again, forcing himself to take a deep breath, be a grown up.

Bobby's scowl softened immediately. "I know you want to get back to Dean, Sam. But we've gotta..."

"I know," Sam interrupted. "I know. I just." He rolled his head around on his neck, trying to work out the tension there. It was hot and his head ached like crazy and... "Sorry," he said.

"I can take Sam back into town." Spencer Reid stepped up somewhat awkwardly next to Bobby, his colleagues right behind him. "The others are staying, but Hotch wants Morgan back at the hospital. Sam could ride with me."

Bobby narrowed his eyes at Emily and Agent Hotchner. "You mind riding in the cab of the tow truck?" He scratched dirty fingers through his damp beard. "And it might be awhile out in this heat."

"I don't mind," Emily said easily. "Anything that keeps me from having to listen to Morgan lie about how 'fine' he is, is good by me."

Agent Hotchner nodded his agreement.

"Up to you, Sam."

"Yeah," Sam readily agreed. "That'd be great."

"Let us know if you feel the same way after your time in the car with Morgan," Emily called after him.

* * *

Sam didn't know what Agent Prentiss was talking about. Morgan's complaints barely registered on Sam's scale of "lies and threats I have endured while tending to the well-being of people I care about." But, then, Sam had been hearing similar defensive reassurances from Dean – and his father – as long as he could remember.

Sam still had nightmares of his 12-year-old self sitting in the back seat watching Dean drive, grim-faced and ashen, shoulders hunched against the force of their father's yelling that he was fine dammit and didn't need a hospital. John had had a rag pressed against a gash at his hairline while blood sluiced down his face from under it, pupils uneven, complexion matching Dean's. John had passed out almost five minutes before they'd reached an ER. The doctor had told Dean he'd saved Dad's life – internal bleeding that had gone undetected in the hurried triage conducted in the immediate aftermath of the battle. Dad had never mentioned it again. The scene had been played out in many variations over the years with Sam himself sometimes playing the role of his father. When Dean wasn't hogging the part.

Morgan's muted grumbling just kind of made Sam want to pat him on the head.

When they reached the hospital, Sam escorted Morgan into the ER while Reid found a place to park the Suburban. He paused long enough to point one of the nurses to Derek before ducking out and heading for Dean's room.

"Sam." It was Dr. Jones.

"Hey, Doc," Sam said, not slowing down. Though, admittedly, he wasn't moving all that fast.

"Where you headed?" The doctor's question was lightly mocking.

Sam kept going, putting one foot determinedly in front of the other.

"You're bleedin', son." A hand landed on Sam's shoulder, but it didn't force him to a halt.

"Yeah," Sam squinted at the room numbers he was passing. Jo had given him the room number, and he was pretty sure he was headed in the right direction.

There was a huff of breath as the hand let go. "I'll get a suture kit, just in case, and meet you there." A pause. "Turn left when you get to the end of the hall. Dean's in the second room on the right."

"'Thanks," Sam said.

When he made the turn into his brother's room, Sam put a hand on the door frame to steady himself, blinking heavily. Dean's bed swayed into view, and Sam headed in that general direction, trusting that he'd reach it if he could keep himself in motion.

He'd just planted his palms on the mattress, locking his elbows to keep from face-planting into his injured brother when he heard an exasperated voice behind him.

"Sam. Honestly." Jo's tone lacked the compassion Sam thought he really deserved all things considered.

"Told you," said the doctor, coming up behind them.

"Sit down."

Jo again and Sam felt the edge of a chair bump—none too gently, frankly—against his calves, and he pushed off somewhat awkwardly from the bed, falling backward into the hard plastic.

"Ow," he complained when his head got jarred.

"I told you Dean was fine," Jo said. "Why did you not go home? I told you to go home."

"Ow," Sam muttered again when the doctor started trying to part his hair to get a look at the bump on the back of his head.

Now Jo gave a startled gasp. "Are you hurt? Is he hurt?" she demanded.

"He's fine. Maybe a couple of stitches. I'm going to need to shave this to..."

"No."

"Sam."

"Dean never has to cut my hair to put in stitches."

"'Dean never...'? How many times have you...?" Jo started at the same time Dr. Jones said, "Are you saying your brother's better at stitching up a head wound than I am?"

Sam didn't respond to either query. "No cutting my hair," he said.

The doctor sighed, and Sam grimaced while the man fiddled with the wound some more.

"Fine," he grumbled. "I think a butterfly will work. But it's going to pull on that hair you're so attached to."

Sam didn't respond to that either, satisfied with the capitulation.

The doctor had just stepped out of the room when Dean shifted in the bed. Sam and Jo leaned forward anxiously.

"Dean?" Sam prodded. "Can you hear me?"

Dean's face contorted unhappily.

"S'm," he mumbled.

"Hey, man."

Dean's eyes opened to slits, pupils moving toward the sound of his brother's voice. "K?"

"'m fine." Sam ignored the muffled sounds of disagreement behind him.

"M'ley?"

"Gone."

Dean's eyes slid closed, and his head moved slightly in acknowledgment. His eyes struggled open again and met Sam's.

"'m better S'm'y go."

Sam smiled. "Yeah, you're better," he admitted. "But..."

"Jo?" Dean's eyes had found her standing behind his brother.

"Hey, baby," she said.

"T'k S'm h'm." He slurred the order, but it was an order nonetheless.

"We're headed there next," she reassured him. As if Sam hadn't already said he was staying.

Sam frowned at Jo. She smiled at him.

"Come on, sweetie," she said, taking his arm and giving a tug.

Sam rose in spite of himself. "No. I..."

"Say good-bye to your brother, darlin',"

Sam blinked, turning to the hospital bed, "I'll be back in the morning," he said as if his mouth was not connected to his brain, which was still protesting his removal.

Dean raised a couple of fingers off the bed in response, and his eyes closed again.

"There," Jo said gently. "You know he's safe; he knows you're safe. Time to go home."

And Sam let himself be led out of the room.

* * *

Jo wrinkled her brow at the Amazon box addressed to her. She reached for a pair of scissors to slit the tape, trying to remember when she'd last ordered anything online. Dean had just gotten home from the hospital, and she hadn't had the time or the inclination over the last few days even to turn on the computer. She pulled the plastic bubble wrap out and laughed in surprise and delight at the cover of the DVD when she turned it over in her hand. At the bottom of the box she found the printed note – "For your recovery. May you – and all your boys – enjoy it for many years to come. Emily."

* * *

"How are you feelin', darlin'?" Jo asked solicitously. She ran a hand over Dean's head, smiling solicitously at him.

Dean shifted slightly in the recliner. He hated being flat on his back, but being that way in the family room, with the television (and the family) was infinitely better than being that way in his room by himself.

"OK," he allowed. "Are you going to sit down?" he frowned at her. Luke and Michael and Sam (and Dean when he was aware enough) had all be fussing at Jo, trying to make her rest herself.

Jo handed him a pillow and spread a quilt over his legs.

"Yes," she said, giving him an indulgent look. "I'm just going to put the movie in, then I promise I'll sit, too." She moved toward the DVD player. "Oh, Sam! Sweetie, come in and watch with us."

Sam had been wandering through the room, and he looked vaguely around, eyes sharpening when he noticed Dean out of his room. "Hey!"

Dean jerked his chin at his brother. "'sup?"

Sam sat on the corner of the couch nearest Dean's chair. "You OK to be up?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "You think Jo would let out here if I weren't?" he asked.

Sam grinned. "Guess not. You were dead to the world when I checked in earlier."

Dean shrugged, eyes going to the television.

Luke came into the room with a huge bowl full of popcorn. "Sit back, Sam," he said handing the bowl to the younger man. Reflexively Sam held his hands out to receive what was being offered.

"I don't know. I'm not in the mood for a movie. I think I'll..."

Jo sat down next to Sam, trapping him between herself and the arm of the couch as she reached into the bowl.

"Oh, come on, sweetheart," she said, pointing the remote at the TV as Luke joined her, reaching across and into the bowl. Sam eased back into the cushions when Luke's attempt to grab a handful of popcorn pushed the bowl more firmly into Sam's gut. "I won't have to worry about Dean getting restless if you're here." She paused, looking up at him. "And I'll be able to rest better, too."

Sam blinked down into her earnest face.

"Oh. OK."

She gave him a blinding smile and pushed play.

"What're we watchin'?" Dean asked.

"Did you take your meds at lunch?" Luke asked and both Dean and Sam took their eyes off the screen to look at Luke.

"Yeah," Dean answered, eyes about to drift back to the television.

"Are you sure?" Luke asked. "Sam?" Sam's eyes shifted to Luke again, too. "Did your brother take his meds, I'm not..."

The melodious strains of the movie's soundtrack started to play.

Sam had just opened his mouth to reply when Tommy skidded into the room.

"Is this _Anne of Green Gables_?" he asked excitedly.

Sam and Dean turned their heads to the TV so quickly Sam actually yelped when his neck cricked.

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Dean asked at the same time Tommy said, "We haven't seen this in forever!"

Sam moved to get up from the couch, and Jo leaned in hard against him, her hand in the popcorn bowl in his lap holding him in place.

"No," he said firmly.

"It's awesome!" Tommy said. "Jake!" he hollered. " _Anne of Green Gables_!"

"Yes," said Jo as firmly as Sam had. "Stop trying to get out of that chair, Dean Winchester; you'll pull your stitches. You're watching this with us. Both of you."

Jake's entrance to the family room was more studied than his brother's had been, and he looked warily from Sam to Dean before turning his eyes to the television screen. The slight smile on the kid's face surprised Dean.

"Huh," Jake said, face schooling quickly into unconcern, reaching for a handful of popcorn. He sat down in front of couch, leaning back and clearly getting comfortable for the duration.

Dean's eyes narrowed at Jo. "You were tricking us," he accused her, then turned his glare on Luke. "Both of you," he echoed Luke.

Luke winked at him, pointing the neck of his beer bottle at first Dean and then Sam. "Settle in, boys."

"This isn't fair," Dean protested. "You..."

"Shhh," Jo said, putting a handful of popcorn in her mouth. "It's starting."

* * *

_The End_


End file.
